


Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum

by jaimeajamais



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Amazon!Clarke, Empress!Lexa, Eventual Smut, F/F, Roman AU, Slow Burn, clexa au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-04
Updated: 2018-04-04
Packaged: 2018-07-12 02:49:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 125,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7081885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaimeajamais/pseuds/jaimeajamais
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lexa is the Empress of Rome.  Clarke is an Amazon, the new leader of a conquered people.  When Clarke is captured and taken back to Rome as the Empress's slave, she and Lexa form a complicated relationship.  And as always, much more than the fate of their own hearts is at stake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

Octavia au Aquilli pulls her sword from the limp body of the woman underneath her, lungs heaving, struggling to catch her breath as she stands. The battlefield has gone still, a heavy, thick silence punctuated only by the moans of the wounded and dying blanketing the fields. Blood soaks the ground at her feet and the wool of her cloak, and she tastes the copper tang of it on her tongue. She wipes her blade on the tunic of a dead legionnaire and surveys the field of battle with a veteran’s eye.

Their losses today are grievous, for a battle against the Amazons. For any other battle, they would have been devastating. Over half of her cohort lies dead or dying on the ground. She doesn’t allow herself to stand vigil over their last breaths or strain to hear their final, gasping words. She is _Primus_ , First Spear of the Roman legion, and she cannot afford to appear weak, cannot allow herself to feel anything for these men and women who have bled with her today. She moves, searching for any of her _primi ordines_ , the centurions serving directly under her. Years in the legion have taught her that above all else, she must always keep moving. Harder for an enemy to find her, to corner her… harder for her own mind to grapple her into halting indecision. She finds herself on the edge of the battlefield, looking on as four Roman centurions force a group of Amazonian warriors to their knees.

They are who she is looking for, and she comes to a halt next to the first in the line, a tall, lanky man who she would not have personally picked as a soldier. Still, the _Augustus_ saw something in him and raised him to centurion, and she will not question the judgment of her Empress. “Ave, Jasper.”

“Ave, _Primus_ ,” he says, flashing her a quick but crisp salute as he switches his sword temporarily to his left hand. She watches the Amazons out of the corner of her eye, making a note to speak to Jasper later about how battlefield decorum is less important than _keeping your eyes on the fucking enemy_. His Adam’s apple bobs up and down in his throat as he waits for her to speak. “How did we fare today?” She asks lowly, hoping the man will have the sense to keep his voice down as he replies.

He does not disappoint in this, at least. “I don’t have a count on our losses, _Primus_. I have been preoccupied with the prisoners.” Octavia raises her head at that, glaring at him, and he shakes his head quickly, lifting his hands in self-defense. “Not in that way, _Primus_. I have respected your prohibitions.” She nods, satisfied, and he rushes to continue. “Their losses are great. I think around two hundred dead, at least, with another hundred or so more captured. Several tried to flee, but none were successful.”

Octavia thinks for a moment, and then tilts her head toward the prisoners. “Let that one go,” she says, gesturing towards an Amazon with long, dirty blonde hair and scowling features. The woman is tall enough that Octavia can guess her stature even though she is kneeling. The Amazon snarls and spits at her Roman captors when they jerk her to her feet, and Octavia smiles. “She can tell the world what happened here,” she says, the edges of her smile turning feral. “She can tell them that the Empress always wins.”

\----------------------

The wagon jostles and bounces along the rutted dirt roadway, throwing its occupants uncomfortably against the walls of the covering every time they hit a rough patch. Clarke has a spear wound in her side that cracks open just a little bit more every time they hit uneven ground. It has clotted, mostly, and she knows that if she had even one day to rest it would clot completely, but for now every tiny indentation or curve in the road shifts her body into a stretch that leaves the wound weeping blood and clear clotting fluid.

Still, she is one of the lucky ones. The spear missed her vital organs, and she will heal. She glances around the wagon, checking the rest of her tribe for the thousandth time. Maya lies unconscious, having taken a blow to the back of the head, and even now she seems to drift in and out of wakefulness, muttering fitfully. Clarke has seen enough concussions in her years as a healer to know that if Maya does not wake soon, the chances that she will ever wake will diminish drastically. It has been two days since they have been taken, and though Clarke has tried, she has not been able to keep the other woman awake through their journey. She has not been able to keep her safe.

Monroe kom Skaikru slumps in the corner next to her. She is sleeping, but not passed out; the woman has only a shallow gash on her leg. Watching the other woman sleep even while being tossed about like a sapling in a storm, Clarke fights down her disgust. Given the appropriate amount of time, Clarke might have confronted her willingness to give in to the enemy while she was still standing and mostly unharmed. Clarke might have called her a sympathizer, a traitor, and maybe even a coward. It doesn’t matter now. They are all in the clutches of the Empress, and Monroe fighting wouldn’t have changed that.

There’s a strangled cry from the opposite corner of the wagon, and Clarke forces herself to look at the woman she’s been avoiding for the past several hours. When Raven had initially been carried in, Clarke had spent every minute by her side, ignoring her own wounds as she tried to comfort the stubborn, feverish brunette. Raven had slipped in and out of consciousness, but she’d awoken for good yesterday, and her pointed questions about her own health were too much for Clarke to handle.

The healer has been giving her patients serious news – both good and bad – for years now. She has comforted mothers who lost babes before birth, warriors who lost their partners or their limbs in battle, and children orphaned by the ravages of war. She has seen vicious wounds and terrible diseases and has kept a calm mind and steady hands throughout all of it.

So she cannot explain why it is that she finds herself utterly unable to face her best friend when she asks about her wounded leg. The leg is completely crushed, a bloody mess of bone and mangled flesh, and Clarke is hard pressed to do anything but clean the wound as best she can and pray to the gods that infection doesn’t set in. She could attempt to set the bones, but she has nothing to keep the leg stabilized. The bones would just shift again, causing even more injury to the limb. She has not been able to keep many of her healing supplies, but she does have a few poultices that she has sewn into the lining of her tunic so that she could have them ready at hand during and after battle. She has almost exhausted those supplies, but she thinks they are working to prevent infection for now, at least. This is the critical time.

“Clarke,” Raven mumbles, the words strained through clenched teeth, and Clarke reluctantly moves closer to her friend. “Just tell me,” Raven says, and Clarke tries not to hear the plea in her voice. She knows Raven wouldn’t want that. She also knows she can’t avoid the question forever. She takes a deep breath and decides the truth is the best she can give right now.

“It’s bad, my friend,” she says, and is both surprised and horrified to realize that tears are starting to form in her eyes. She swipes them away quickly, knowing Raven would reject any sign of pity. “Do you remember what happened?”

Raven’s eyes are cloudy with pain, and she doesn’t see the movement. Or she chooses not to comment. She lets out a staggered breath and faces the wall of the wagon. “My horse…” she gasps out, and then cannot continue. She is weak and the pain must be unbearable. She shivers, but the skin under Clarke’s questing hand is warm.

Clarke swallows heavily and nods. “Your stallion was cut out from under you in the battle. Your foot was tangled in the tresses and you were unable to jump free in time. The horse landed on you, and it… he crushed your leg, Raven. He was panicked and in his death throes, and he didn’t… it was…” Terrifying. Clarke doesn’t say it, but she had been certain that her friend was going to die. If not by the horse, then by the blade of the Roman centurion that had brought it down upon her best friend. She forces herself to finish. “You will not walk again, not without considerable pain and effort. Maybe not at all. You will not regain full use of that leg.” She does not soften the words. It will do Raven no favors to feel hope where there is none to be had.

The brunette clenches her jaw and Clarke pretends not to see the tears slip down her face. She is still struggling not to cry herself, and her heart breaks to see her strong, brave friend facing the loss of the thing that defines her above all else – her status as an Amazon warrior. Raven had been one of their tribe’s best horsewomen, and could match any of their warriors with a spear. When Raven speaks, it’s barely a whisper. “She didn’t kill me.”

It’s not a question – it’s a truth – but Clarke answers her anyway. “Our Queen stepped in.” She does not finish the statement, because Raven knows. She knows that Abbinia – Clarke’s adoptive mother – threw herself in front of Raven, battling the Roman centurion over the prone body of her fallen warrior. She knows Raven saw the centurion thrust her sword through the vulnerable gap where Abby’s breastplate met her back plate, because when she found Raven, Abby was gasping and dying only inches away. Clarke – a capable fighter, but by no means their best – had launched herself at the centurion, rage fueling her attack, only to be brought low by a legionnaire attacking from the side. She had fallen to the spear thrust and the centurion had been carried away by the tide of the battle. She had lain next to her mother, watching as the light faded from her eyes and she took her last breath. She had felt the press of her mother’s royal torque into her palm, had manage to slip it under her tunic before the legionnaires had rounded up the survivors and shoved them roughly into the wagon. They’d been checked for weapons, but the Romans had not cared about her token. She has it still.

Raven’s angry hiss jolts her out of her reverie, and she focuses again on the wounded woman beside her. Her next words are the loudest she’s spoken yet, and the conviction behind them makes Clarke’s heart swell with determination. “I’m going to kill that Roman bitch.”

Clarke hopes that she’s right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Primus, or Primus pilus (First Spear): The commanding centurion of the first century of the first cohort of the legion, and the whole first cohort in battle. The highest ranking centurion.  
> Primi ordines: The first five centurions of a Roman cohort, chosen for their skill and perhaps for their bloodline. They were paid over 30 times the base wage of Roman legionnaires and were elevated highly above the others.  
> Legion: About five thousand soldiers – also a term for the entire Roman army.  
> Cohort: A tenth of the legion, or five hundred soldiers.  
> Century: Around 85 soldiers – there were 59 centuries in a legion.  
> Centurion: An office rank with divisions from junior to senior. There were five centurions to every century.  
> Legionnaire: A common Roman foot soldier.  
> Augustus: A term for the ruling emperor of Rome.  
> Ave: A greeting, like “hello.”


	2. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lexa is Empress, Marcus is not amused, and Gustus is a big teddy bear. 
> 
> Thanks for all your kind comments and kudos thus far! I'm glad people are enjoying this! Don't get too used to the updating schedule - this was just already written and I decided to go ahead with it to make up for a short first chapter! Next update will probably be Thursday.

Alexandria au Augustus, _Imperator Caesar Augustus_ , Empress of all Rome, Conqueror of the East and Master of the World, pulls her hands away from the woman sweating and writhing beneath her and props herself up on an elbow. The woman is flush with her orgasm and breathing heavily, and Lexa lazily palms her breast, letting her fingers dig a little into the vulnerable flesh there. “You have left me undone, my Empress,” the woman pants, lifting herself up and placing a kiss on the side of Lexa’s mouth. She forces herself not to roll her eyes at the overwrought confession.

There is a rap on the door, and Lexa stands, reaching for a deep purple robe and slipping it on before replying. “Yes?” She questions, tying the robe together with a sash about her waist.

“A _Legatus_ is here to see you, Empress,” the guard answers through the door, and Lexa glances over her shoulder at the woman behind her.

“Which ambassador?”

“Costia au Junia,” comes the reply, and Lexa’s eyebrow twitches upward. She turns toward the woman in her bed – she doesn’t remember her name, but it hardly matters – and gestures for her to dress. “You must leave now,” she commands, reaching up and sweeping her hair back into a neat twisted braid that starts at the nape of her neck. She’d like to have it done in a signature crown, but hasn’t the time. She does not have her laurels, either. She resigns herself to greeting the ambassador in somewhat less than perfect Imperial form. “See the guards on the way out,” she tells the woman, almost as an afterthought. “They will see you safely home.”

The woman, now dressed, blushes and bows, her expression a tangle of embarrassment and gratitude. “Yes, Empress,” she agrees.

Lexa has the guards allow Costia in before the woman is fully out of the room, and she can see the lift of the patrician’s eyebrows as she watches her hurry past.

“Hail the _Augustus_ ,” Costia says when she nears, dropping into a respectful bow.

“Rise, _Legatus_  Junia,” Lexa commands, having little patience for ceremony at the moment. “And tell me why you are here.”

Costia stands, studying the Empress of Rome with something calculating behind her eyes. Lexa does not like Costia, does not trust her, but she takes the opportunity to let her eyes roam shamelessly over the other woman’s body. Costia is beautiful, her slender form just shy of Lexa’s considerable height, her features elegant and noble. She has large, brown eyes like all of the Junia family, and her olive skin is smooth and soft. Her breasts are small, but well formed, and Lexa knows from experience that her nipples are pert and browned like the rest of her. She smells of lemon and salt, having probably come recently from her ship. She catches Lexa’s gaze in hers, and her full lips curve into a smile that is entirely too knowing. She is intelligent. She is dangerous.

Lexa reaches for her, drawing her to her body with firm hands on round hips. She shifts forward, burying her face in dark curls and nipping at the nape of the other woman’s neck, feeling her shiver underneath the embrace.

“Your… dalliance did not satisfy you, my liege?” Costia breathes, and Lexa is gratified by the husk in the woman’s voice. She pulls at her dress, sliding it off roughly and hefting the other woman up so that her legs tangle around Lexa’s hips, letting Costia undo the sash of her robe so that it falls away as she lays them down on the bed.

As she slides her bare body onto Costia’s, feeling the woman whimper at the strength of the thigh pressing between her legs, she speaks only truth. “I am never satisfied.”

\------------------------

Consul Marcus au Quinctilia walks briskly down the corridors of the Empress’s palace, making his way to Alexandria’s bedroom. The Empress is late, of course, and while Marcus understands that the woman has duties that are both numerous and complex, he also understands that Alexandria’s penchant for bedding noblewomen at all hours of the day and night is legendary. If he had to wager, he would say that what was keeping Alexandria at the moment had nothing to do with her duties as Empress.

Marcus draws to a halt outside the door, nodding to Titus, Alexandria’s Praetorian guard for the morning. “Ave, _protector_ ,” he greets him, bobbing his head once.

Titus bows deeply in return. “Ave, _Consul_. The Empress is entertaining a guest at the moment. She will not want to be disturbed.”

He fights back the urge to roll his eyes as his suspicions are confirmed. He settles for pursing his lips instead. “I know you will not wish to disturb the _Augustus_ , but I am afraid I must insist. There are matters of state that need her immediate attention.” This is a stretch, and Marcus knows it, but he hates to be kept waiting. “Please let her know I await her in the war chamber.”

Titus gives him a pleading look, but he remains steadfast and after a moment, the guard’s shoulders slump and he turns to do his duty. Marcus hears the thump of a spear butt on the door and his gruff voice calling out his message, but does not wait for the reply as he makes his way to the war room down the hall.

The morning is unseasonably chilly, and he moves to close the windows in the chamber as he waits. The castle is a fine example of modern Roman architecture, appealing and defensible, sumptuous and martial all at once. It was built before Marcus’s time by Alexandria’s forebear, Octavian Augustus, Emperor of Rome. Still, he cannot remember a time when it did not stand, casting a protective shadow over the sprawling metropolis below. They are high on a hill overlooking the city, and despite the cool air he allows himself to linger by the window, looking down at all the people he helps to rule over. He loves Rome, loves the sheer size and breadth of it, loves the people with their art and their passion and their strength. He loves the knowledge of the scholars, even those who debate and haggle in the streets like Grecians, because he knows that their wisdom builds a society that will endure. He loves the legion, the sound of a fist thumping against a breastplate, of a thousand feet marching in unison. Rome is his home, and he swears by all the gods that he will protect it.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” He startles as he hears the voice behind him and turns to find Alexandria standing next to him, smiling one of the rare smiles that touches her eyes. “Our mother Rome.”

Marcus does not appreciate being startled, but he finds his mouth lifting upwards in response anyway. The Empress is a difficult woman to stay angry with.

Alexandria au Augustus is a tall, striking woman in full Imperial regalia, her silk toga and tunic fastened at the corner with an eagle brooch, crimson cloak draped over her shoulder like a mantle. Her eyes are the color of jade from the Eastern lands and she wears her laurels atop curling hair the color of freshly turned soil, which today is pulled back into braids forming an Imperial crown at the top of her skull. Her smooth skin is permanently bronzed by the sun after so many campaigns, and lithe muscles ripple underneath the surface, obvious when she moves. Alexandria was not born to be the Caesar, and her warrior’s training shows in every aspect of her personality: in her movement and in her stillness, in the clench of her razor cut jaw and the way her eyes never stop searching the room as she stands next to Marcus. It is also, Marcus thinks wryly, probably how she had snuck up on him.

“It is, Empress,” he agrees, bowing shallowly. As Consul, he shares a rank that is almost equal to the Empress in many ways, and he is not required to make a grand display of obeisance. Indeed, Alexandria’s returned bow is nearly as deep. “It is regrettable that I was forced to disturb you this morning, but I have news of some import.”

The Empress’s mouth twitches, and she looks amused as she gestures for them to sit at the broad, round table in the center of the room, made from the wood of an olive tree. “I was quite finished, I assure you,” she answers, and at Marcus’s exasperated stare, smiles fully. “I apologize for keeping you waiting, Marcus. I had an impromptu visit from one of our _Legati_.”

He is unsurprised to learn the identity of Alexandria’s guest. “Not the Junia?” He asks, displeasure coursing through his veins. “You know she cannot be trusted.”

Lexa is unruffled. She makes a show of pretending to think about it, as if the question is somehow vague. “Which Junia?” She asks, her tone curious, as if she honestly does not know to whom Marcus is referring.

The Consul shakes his head, refusing to feel amusement at Alexandria’s childish antics. “You have slept with more than one?” He counters, registering Alexandria’s gratification at the personal level of the question. She has always tried to make these meetings less formal, much to Marcus’s chagrin.

Lexa shrugs. “They’re an attractive family,” she responds, and Marcus snorts in disbelief. The look he gives Lexa leaves no room for misinterpretation, and the younger woman relents, sighing and letting her shoulders slump forward. “I know that Costia au Junia is not to be trusted,” she says, turning a steady gaze to Marcus. “But if there is to be a viper in our midst, I’d rather it be in my sight than striking from the shadows. The woman is a vocal bedfellow.” She leans forward and pours herself a cup of water from the ewer on the table, then pours one for Marcus.

He accepts it, choosing to ignore the double meaning in her words. He should have known the young Empress would see the danger, would embrace it for her people. It is so very like her. “I suppose,” he allows at last. “So long as you do not let her past your defenses, Alexandria.” Lexa nods in confirmation, and Marcus adds, in a stern tone, “And you cannot sleep with everyone we suspect of being a spy for the Visigoths.”

At the mention of her old enemy, Lexa’s lip curls up, baring her teeth in a warrior’s snarl. “And is Nia the source of your news, Consul?”

Marcus’s answering sigh speaks volumes. “We have no news on the Ice Queen, Alexandria. I have scouts out all along our borders, testing her defenses and watching for signs of an attack, but I have heard nothing.” Lexa’s disappointment radiates from her body, but she remains silent, so Marcus continues. “I have, however, heard from your _Legatus Augusti pro praetore_ , Commander of the First Three legions, on the Primus’s battle with the Skaikru Amazon tribe.”

Lexa raises an eyebrow, leaning forward in anticipation. “And?” She queries. “What does Indra have to say about the battle? Was my First Spear victorious?”

Marcus nods. “They won a great victory in Polis over the Skaikru. Indra reports that Octavia au Aquilli conquered the Amazons to a woman, putting more than half to the sword and taking those who were not too injured to travel as slaves. She killed their queen, Abbinia, personally.”

Satisfied, Lexa leans back in her chair, allowing herself to revel in the thrill of this victory. “She has done well,” she asserts, and then rises, pacing over to the window, her back to Marcus. “With the Skaikru Amazons out of the way, I can pull all but a skeleton force of troops from the western border and send them southeast to guard against a Visigoth invasion. I will call them further south at first, towards Rome itself, to make it look as if they are returning home. If Nia sends even one soldier into my lands, they will sweep to the east and pin her against the coastline.” She turns to Marcus, green eyes searching the older man’s face as she thinks. “I’ll need updated troop numbers, and if possible, we need to send spies into Nia’s ranks. Select legionnaires with no families and make the assignment on a voluntary basis only. I do not expect them to return. You will inform Indra?”

Marcus nods slowly, but his concern is etched into his face. He would not voice anything, but Lexa notices, of course. “You have reservations?”

He makes himself meet the young commander’s gaze, though he cannot help but shrink from the intensity in her eyes. Alexandria will hear him out, he knows, but he has no illusions that she will take his advice. Still, it is his duty to give it. “I will inform her, of course, Alexandria, if that is what you truly wish. But, although I have not been Consul for long, and although I do appreciate your support in my elevation, I wonder if we should be so suspicious of our neighbors to the south. The Visigoths have been quiet since the death of the Emperor, may his soul find peace. I worry that hasty planning could lead to an unnecessary war. _Festina lente_ , my Empress.”

Lexa feels herself grow cold at his call for caution. A part of her knows the advice is sage, and yet she cannot take it. She draws herself up, and he is no longer looking at Alexandria au Augustus, but is instead staring at the Empress of Rome, standing tall in the conviction that the world is and always will be in her capable grasp. “ _Si vis pacem, para bellum_ ,” she tells him, voice rumbling in warning. _If you wish for peace, prepare for war_.

He stands, taking it as his cue. “Of course, my Empress. I will do as you say.” She nods, dismissing him, and he takes his leave.

\------------------------

Lexa is still standing at the window a moment later when Gustus arrives, thinking about her discussion with Consul Quinctilius. A part of her knows that Marcus has a point when it comes to the movements of the Visigoths, but she cannot ignore the gnawing feeling inside her when she thinks of their queen, Nia. She cannot explain it, but she knows that trouble is stirring to the south, and she must protect her people at all costs from the vicious rule of the one they call the Ice Queen. She must be ready, no matter what happens.

Gustus clears his throat behind her, and she turns, already expecting his face. He carries a distinct scent of musk and wood smoke from the pipes he favors, and she always feels a sense of comfort when he is near. The head of her household guard, her _Comes Domesticorum_ , Gustus is a tall, broad-shouldered man with a gruff aspect and a beard that is entirely too large to be appropriate in the military. Still, he is as close to a father figure as she has ever had, and he fights like a wild bear, to boot. There is no one she would rather have at her side as protector.

“Empress,” he says formally, then chuckles as she gives him a withering glare. He looks over his shoulder to confirm that they are alone, and then continues. “My little Lexa,” he amends fondly, his loud clap of laughter ringing through the mostly empty chamber as her glare only intensifies. “I have been informed that the Skaikru prisoners will be here in two days’ time. Several are too injured to be put to work immediately, but I will have those who are hale divided amongst our current slaves according to their skill and temperament. I do not intend to let them work alongside each other more than is necessary. They are a proud people, and it would be a mistake to think that they are cowed simply because they are in chains.”

Lexa nods her head approvingly. “That is well, Gustus,” she answers, her previous scowl replaced by an expression of ease. It is one she rarely wears these days, but Gustus is one of the few people she can be Lexa with, rather than the Empress of Rome. He has known her since she was a babe in arms, since well before anyone ever looked at her and thought she would be ruling the largest empire in the known world. She wants to speak to him of this, of how isolated she has been of late, but there is still work to be done. “They are making good time,” she says instead, turning to a table with a map of her empire spread upon it. She frowns. “I thought you said some were injured.”

He senses the shift in topic and looks uncomfortable. “The First Spear rides ahead,” he answers. “She wanted to be able to report to Indra and yourself personally, and as soon as possible. There are aspects to her report that she did not wish to risk in writing.” Lexa’s head comes up at that, curious, but it is clear by the spread of Gustus’s arms that he knows nothing more on the subject. He continues, “She left the command of the slave wagons to Ontari au Antonia, the _pilus prior_ of the fifth cohort. The girl is young and wishes to prove herself.” His tone radiates disapproval. “She is from the plebeian branch of the Antonia family and seeks elevation. The pace she has set is… grueling. There will be many who do not survive.”

Lexa’s lips press into a flat line. “There is no honor in killing an enemy in chains,” she growls, “whether by sword or indifference, it makes no matter. Send a rider to the Antonia girl and inform her that her haste is unnecessary. Tell her that dead slaves have little worth.”

Gustus eyes her carefully. “You are sure that is what you wish to convey, Lexa?” He asks, his tender tone at odds with his hulking physique. “We both know that the price of those slaves is not what you are concerned with. It is not weakness to value human life.”

She looks away, schooling her expression. Gustus is one of the only people alive who can see through her cold exterior, and she loves him ferociously for it. But she is still the Empress, and she must be strong. She must be _feared_. There is no place for love in the leaders of Rome. She is surrounded, at all times, by enemies who would tear down everything she and her ancestors have built. She is surrounded by men who would do anything to prove that her womanhood makes her unfit to rule. She must be stronger than any man, and she cannot allow them to see any sign of _feminine_ emotion. She cannot show sympathy.

She tries to think of a way to explain this to Gustus, but as the silence stretches on he sighs deeply and she thinks that he understands. “I will tell them, Empress,” he says, resigned, and she tries not to feel hurt that he has chosen to refer to her by title. “Stay strong, little lioness,” he tells her, and the hurt is replaced by warmth that suffuses her body. He claps a hand to her shoulder, and she feels an irrational urge to wrap her arms around him and let herself sink into the comfort of his fatherly embrace.

She gives him a short nod instead, speaking quietly. “I will, Gustus. _Hic sunt leones_.”

“ _Hic sunt leones_ ,” Gustus replies, and turns to leave.

She watches him go, then calls his name on impulse. He turns, questioningly, and before she can stop herself she asks, “Can you send over Anya? I… have not seen her in some time, and there are things we must discuss.”

Curiosity sparks in his eyes, but he does not comment. Instead, he merely nods in assent and leaves the room.

Lexa breathes out a sigh of relief and slumps into a cushioned chair. It is going to be a long day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love it? Hate it? I'm curious to see what people think of womanizing Lexa.
> 
> Glossary:
> 
> Legatus: An ambassador, usually from Rome to another territory. Legati is the plural.  
> Protector/Protector domesticus: A bodyguard/household or Imperial bodyguard.  
> Consul: One of two leaders of Rome. Both elected, one was historically the Emperor, who would of course be re-elected each term.  
> Legatus Augusti pro praetore: An Imperial Legate, the commander of two of more legions and the governor of the provinces those legions hail from.  
> Festina Lente: “Make haste slowly,” or, take the time to plan even when you need to hurry.  
> Si vis pacem, para bellum: “If you wish for peace, plan for war.”  
> Comes Domesticorum: Commander of the Household Troops  
> Pilus prior: The commander of one of the 10 1st centuries within the legion, one for each cohort. They would command the entire cohort in battle.  
> Hic sunt leones: “Here be lions.”


	3. III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for your comments and kudos so far! This is my first fic and I really appreciate the support! In this chapter, Clarke is a leader, Octavia fangirls and Indra thinks it's amusing. Plus, Empress!Lexa. 
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING - I will say there is a brief mention of sexual assault in this chapter - not a character from the 100. I made it as delicate as I could, and I wouldn't have included it at all if it wasn't historical, but as someone who generally avoids those triggers myself, I can say that I don't think it would bother me, but heads up. If you're worried, just skip down about five paragraphs after you see the word "Boudica."

Somewhere in the dark, Raven is screaming. Clarke can hear her from where she lies on the narrow cot in what must be the palace’s infirmary. They have arrived at Rome in the night, three days later than projected.

She does not know what happened, but two days ago a rider came into camp bearing the Imperial standard. They stopped to rest that day and part of the day after, and when they began again, their pace was considerably slower. The Roman centurion in charge had been in a furious mood, but luckily had not taken her anger out on the prisoners, instead taking the restful day to hunt boar in the woods with the rest of the centurions, leaving the legionnaires to watch the injured Amazons. Clarke might have been able to lead a rebellion against them, but her tribe was exhausted and had lost many to the punishing pace of their travel. At full health, two hundred Roman legionnaires would be only a slightly uneven match for eighty or so Amazons, but with their injuries… they could still have won, perhaps, but Clarke would not risk losing more of her people to an outside chance.

So instead she lies in flickering blackness, surrounded by those of her sisters who were deemed too injured to work immediately. Those who were hale enough have already been bundled off to their various masters, destined to become part of the invisible workforce of the empire of their conquerors. She feels a grim satisfaction in knowing that Monroe is not one of them. Days into their journey, the gash on her leg had festered, and without supplies to tend to the wound, the infection had spread rapidly. Clarke cannot help but think the gods have taken her life for her cowardice. It is cruel, but she thinks it may be fair.

She knows it is a miracle that she and Raven did not share their sister’s fate. Clarke’s own wound is finally healing now that it is not constantly being jarred open by the movement of the wagon. She will be ready to work in a few days, at most. She hopes that the stories she has heard of the Empress are not true. She believes that they are.

There is another gasping scream, and another, and Raven is growing hoarse with the effort of expelling so much air from her lungs. There are lamps on the far side of the room, illuminating the Roman doctors as they attempt to set her best friend’s leg. Clarke knows it is a difficult procedure. The leg is broken in multiple places – some of the bones are in pieces so small that they will never heal completely – so she knows it is a blessing when Raven finally passes out, silencing the cries that have been haunting her tribe for the past several hours.

She can hear the shallow, quick breathing of her sisters around her, and knows that they are all awake. She can hear the soft sniffles in the dark. They are crying, and are trying to be quiet about it. Clarke is glad that the night will allow them to mask their shame. She has never thought that emotion is weakness, but her mother says – _said_ , she corrects herself, and grits her teeth against the wave of pain that rises up to greet her at the thought – that Clarke’s way of thinking was a result of her upbringing before she came to the tribe. The Amazons think differently.

Her hand finds its way into her pocket, fingers curling around her mother’s torque. She doesn’t feel worthy of what it means to have this in her possession. She isn’t her mother, isn’t even an _Amazon_ by birth, and she doesn’t know if her people will accept her as a leader. She’s even less certain that they will want her as their queen.

But though they are in the grasp of the _Augustus_ , in the very palace of their enemy, they are not broken. They are warriors of the Skaikru tribe, strongest of the Amazons, and she will not allow any Roman, Empress or otherwise, to denigrate her people and survive. They will have their revenge. “ _Jus drein jus daun_ ,” she whispers in the dark, unaware that she has said the words aloud until she hears someone echo them back to her in the dark. Maya, she thinks. The girl had finally awoken the day before yesterday and was slowly regaining her strength.

“ _Jus drein jus daun_ ,” she hears repeated, this time by Charlotte, a warrior several years younger than Clarke. One by one she hears the words rising from the women around the room, softly at first and then louder, growing into a swell of vengeful sound, the war chant echoing throughout the hospital room.

The Roman healers glance over at them, and Clarke feels pride in the worry on their faces. Her answering grin is feral. The centurion made a mistake in releasing Harper. She will have found the other tribes by now, will be raising an army to come and rescue her people. And she will realize, Clarke thinks, that they will be rescuing their new queen, as well. She wills her body to heal more quickly so that she can join the fight when the time comes. She may not be their best warrior, but she is still an Amazon, and she will still fight when the time comes. _Blood must have blood._

\-----------------------

The morning sun beats down upon the back of Indra au Furia’s shoulders as she rides past the palace guards and into the inner keep, reining in her charger beside her _Primus_. It is still early in the spring, but the air is beginning to warm and sweat is showing on the black flanks of her mount, its breath coming quickly as it labors to calm itself. They have ridden hard from her estate just north of the city, endeavoring to reach the Empress as soon as possible. 

She dismounts with ease and hands the reins to the groom waiting for her, with instructions to give the horse extra mashed oats as a special treat. He has done well today, her _Fortem_ , and she will see that he is rewarded.

Octavia au Aquilli dismounts as well, giving her own horse over to the care of the stablehands. She glances at Indra, and the woman can see the uncertainty in her young protégée as if it is grafted into her bones. At twenty-one, Octavia is still young for a military commander. She is only the second female _Primus_ in the history of the Empire. Alexandria au Augustus was the first.

Indra gives her a tight-lipped smile, inclining her head to the brunette. “All is well, Octavia,” she reassures her. “The Empress will hear your concerns. Rome will listen to its _Primus_ today.”

Octavia smiles in a way that Indra knows is supposed to look confident. She has seen the young warrior with that expression more than once – before a battle, addressing her troops, facing an enemy. Octavia is talented at appearing more certain than she is.

She decides to let it go. The younger woman needs her self-assured veneer; it allows Octavia to perform in the way that she thinks others will expect her to perform. Which in most cases, is exactly as it should be. Indra can respect such guardedness in a soldier – would recommend it, if asked. She nods at the younger woman once, quickly, and makes her way up the marble steps. She does not need to glance behind to know that Octavia is following her.

When she reaches the top of the steps, the guards outside the double doors bow to her before they step to the side to allow her entrance. She heads straight to the throne room, knowing that the Empress would not allow Octavia to see her outside of her Imperial guise just yet. They must keep up appearances at all cost.

Alexandria au Augustus is majestic in a purple cape and toga on the Imperial throne of Rome, her proud head lifted above the throng as she hears petitions from her people. The Senate rules them in truth, but Alexandria has individual powers over certain areas of land in the Empire, and those powers are strongest in Rome itself. Although she has no obligation, she insists on hearing the squabbles of commoners and patricians alike at least once a week. Indra hates the practice, as it leaves her desperately vulnerable despite her guards, but it makes her much beloved of the people.

They are still too far for Indra to make out what the Empress is saying when their presence is announced. “Indra au Furia, _Legatus Augusti pro Praetor et Legatus Legionis_ , Commander of the First Three Legions and Governor of the Northern Provinces. Accompanied by Octavia au Aquilli, _Primus pilus_ , First Spear of the Empire and Commander of the First Century of the First Cohort of the Imperial Legion.”

The Empress rises from her throne, saying something final to the two men in front of her, who are facing each other with reddened faces and hands on their swords. Neither looks exactly happy at her words, but they take their hands away from their weapons and clasp forearms, bowing deeply before they go. “Romans,” the Empress calls, her voice deep and carrying across the low murmurs or conversation in the chamber, “I have other matters that need attending to. Any who were here today and did not receive an audience may return in two days’ time. Until then, _vade en pace_.”

The citizens take her words for the dismissal they are and slowly file out of the room, leaving only the soldiers and Alexandria’s bodyguard standing with them. “Leave us,” she says to Titus, again her assigned Praetorian for the day, and he bows low before moving to take up a position outside the throne room. To the unguarded eye, Lexa remains poised, Imperial, but Indra has known the girl since she was nearly a babe. Lexa visibly relaxes once the citizens and her Praetorian are gone, taking one deep breath and letting her shoulders drop just a notch.

Alexandria sat the throne, but it is Lexa who descends the steps, her gaze flickering back and forth between Indra and Octavia. They both drop to one knee, heads bowed, until she commands them in a gruff tone to rise. She greets the senior officer first, jade eyes settling on Indra’s dark face. From the outside, she looks no different than an Empress should, extending a forearm to clasp the other woman’s in greeting, her expression stoic. But Indra can see the warmth in Lexa’s eyes, the barely discernible lift at the corner of her mouth that means she’s fighting a smile. “Ave, Indra au Furia,” her Empress says, and Indra can hear her gladness at their meeting.

Indra keeps her own features blank, though she is sure her eyes spark with the same happiness as Lexa’s. Perhaps later, they will get the chance to speak alone. Until then, they are general and Empress, and not the adoptive family that rings much closer to the truth. “Ave, my Empress,” she says formally, lowering her eyes as she speaks.

The Empress then turns to Octavia, and Indra can feel the younger soldier stiffen at the sudden attention. Lexa’s voice, when she speaks, is still polite, but lacking the warmth of just moments before. “Ave, Octavia au Aquilli,” she says, and for a moment Indra thinks she will withhold the embrace, will force Octavia to bow again, but then her arm is out and the centurion is grasping it hesitantly. Indra feels flush with pride when Octavia manages to return the greeting without faltering, knowing how nervous the girl is. “We have met once before, yes?”

“Yes, Empress. When you raised me to _Primus_ two years ago.”

“Of course. And I hear you return to us victorious, _Primus_ ,” continues Lexa, raising an eyebrow at Octavia, who nods and stands a little straighter, sticking her chest out.

“Yes, Empress. The Skaikru Amazons are defeated. Only a third of their number survived the battle, but those who did have been sent here to be put to work for the good of the Empire.” She pauses, then adds, “I let one go to tell of what happened. To spread the news of your prowess in battle. I had hoped it would sow fear and discourage retaliation.”

Lexa is silent for a long moment, digesting the information. “Your prisoners arrived here in the night,” she says, when she finally speaks. And then, “It was a risk, allowing that warrior to go free. News of their defeat at Roman hands may discourage the Amazons from raising an army and marching on Rome. It also might make them more determined to do so.” Her tone is calm, but her eyes are searching. Indra, who knows her well, does not detect the current of danger that would be underlying those words if she were laying a trap. Octavia, however, does not know her at all, and Indra can feel the concern radiating off the girl. She groans inwardly. The girl has battle nerves unparalleled by any in the legion save maybe Indra herself – and possibly Lexa, actually – but here, in front of her hero, she might as well be a green recruit.

The woman clenches her jaw, then nods stiffly. The tension in the room is palpable, but Octavia does not waver as she answers her liege. “Respectfully, Empress, I weighed that risk in my decision. It would be… unlike the Amazons to retaliate in that manner. They are disorganized fighters, unable to properly compete with an arrayed Roman cohort on the field of battle. They prefer fighting from the trees, in close quarters where our numbers are less of an advantage. They would not attack a fortified settlement, nor any settlement with a population large enough to form an organized defense.” She stops for a moment, thinking, brown eyes darting back and forth. “It is possible that they may wait for a legion or cohort passing through the area, then attack by surprise,” she muses. “Though I believe that would have been a possibility anyway.”

Lexa watches her carefully as she answers, then looks at Indra, who is glowing with pride. She nods as if confirming a suspicion. “A well thought out decision, then,” she praises the soldier, who sags in relief. “You have my gratitude, _Primus_. Is there any boon which you would ask of your Empress as a reward for your faithful service?”

Octavia’s eyebrows knit in confusion, and Indra can almost visibly see her try to process the shift in conversation. “Well,” she says slowly, trying to delay the answer, and then, “I lost a centurion in the battle, Empress. Atom. A good man. I would see that his family is provided for.”

A sculpted eyebrow shoots toward Lexa’s hairline, and her lips press together in a controlled smile. “You honor yourself, Octavia au Aquilli. It is a strong commander who looks first to her people.” She turns, tapping a small bell on the side of her throne, and another Praetorian – not Titus, who still stands guard at the door – but a tall, muscular man with a close-cropped dark beard, steps forward. Indra examines him as he kneels. His complexion is darker than a typical Roman’s, and, Indra registers with some surprise that the man is Gallic. She wonders when Lexa started allowing people from the conquered lands into her Praetorian Guard.

“Lincoln,” the Empress is saying, “Could you present Octavia au Aquilli with the gift I have for her?” Lincoln rises and leaves the room, and the three women stand in silence for a moment. He returns quickly, however, with an armor rack that bears a full set of shining silver armor, the eagle crest of Rome emblazoned on the front. The tunic underneath is the martial red of Rome, and the accompanying helmet has a fine red plume of dyed horsehair at the crest. He also bears a large, rectangular shield and a curved _gladius_ of strong steel, difficult to come by for a legionnaire.

Octavia is standing rigid, nostrils flared, staring fixedly at the suit of armor in front of her as though it may disappear at a blink. Lexa continues to look at her expectantly, and Indra thinks that the pride she feels may actually burst through her chest if left unchecked. “Empress,” Octavia says, and her voice is quiet, unsure. “That is Praetorian armor.”

Another quick press of the lips from Lexa. “Yes,” she answers, “I’m quite aware.” When Octavia does not speak, Lexa continues. “You have been my legion’s _Primus pilus_ for two years now, and in that time you have shown that you are capable, intuitive, and aggressive. You have won more victories for Rome than any other _Primus_ before you – and that includes myself. I will soon be in need of such a soldier in my Praetorian guard. I am hoping that you will fulfill that need.” Octavia is still silent, and her mentor fears that the woman has gone mute from shock. Lexa’s brows knit in consternation for a moment. “It is a voluntary post, of course,” she adds, as if that may help alleviate the younger woman’s concern. “You may refuse, if that is your wish.”

Octavia looks up quickly and shakes her head, almost panicked. She glances at Indra, and the plea in her eyes is enough for her mentor to speak up.

“Peace, Octavia,” she soothes quietly, not wanting to spook her startled friend. “She offers you a promotion, not a viper. You are ready for this.”

Brown eyes blink once, twice in understanding, and Octavia inhales audibly as she drops again to one knee in front of Lexa. “It would be my honor to serve as your _protector_ , Empress. I thank you for this opportunity.”

At this, Lexa smiles a close-mouthed smile that lights up her face and eyes. “Rise, _Praetor_ ,” she says, and at the words Octavia breaks into a huge, excited grin, which she quickly wipes away at Indra’s reprimanding look. The general allows herself only a small smirk, and even that is too much. They are soldiers, after all.

Lexa nods once, as if their business is concluded. “Lincoln will show you to your new quarters in the palace,” she says, gesturing at the Gaul, who has been standing quietly at her left shoulder during the discussion. “And Indra, you mentioned some urgent news. We can address it now, if you like, and then I will release you to your bath and a hot meal.”

The older woman starts to nod, and then glances at Octavia. “I would prefer that your newest Praetorian stay for this, my Empress,” she begins, somewhat hesitantly. “The news is hers, and she may be better equipped to answer any questions you might have.”

Lexa regards her old friend for a long, calculating moment. She nods without ducking her head, just a quick flick of the eyes up and down, and Indra is flooded with relief. Apparently Lexa trusts her enough to extend that trust to Octavia, as well. It is a welcome discovery. “Report, _Praetor_ ,” she commands Octavia, who hesitates only a moment at the unfamiliar title.

“There is another reason I thought the Amazons unlikely to regroup, Empress,” she begins. Lexa waits. “You have heard that I killed their leader, Abbinia. Amazon rites of caste are not necessarily passed down through lineage, as you know, but… in this case, Abbinia had a daughter. The girl was not born an Amazon, but was taken in as a child. I do not know the circumstances, but Abbinia adopted her. Before she died – it must have been in her death throes, for I did not see them together before I fought the queen – she passed the queen’s torque, and her rite of case along with it, to this daughter. I have verified that the daughter survived and was amongst those brought here, to you. Her name is Clarke.”

Lexa appears to be contemplating this new information, trying to fit it into what she already knows of the Amazons and their battle. She nods once, as if to herself, and then her emerald stare refocuses on Octavia. “How do you know this?” She demands.

“She speaks Trigedasleng,” Indra steps in. “The language of the Skaikru and the other twelve tribes of Amazons in Roman territory. She learned as a child.”

Lexa raises an eyebrow at Octavia, although her expression is not as surprised as the gesture would indicate. “Is that so?”

Octavia dips her head and keeps her eyes on the ground. “Yes, Empress,” answers the dark-haired warrior. “I learned as a child, from members of the Trikru who came to trade in my village. Trikru and Skaikru are different tribes, but share much of the same language.”

Another nod from Lexa. “Useful information, indeed. I will think on what to do with this Clarke of the Skaikru. You did well to bring this to me.” A beat, and then, “I have chosen better than imagined with my new Praeotorian Guard.”

Octavia is crimson with the praise, standing so tall that Indra thinks the girl might be on her tip toes at any moment if she keeps stretching like that. She decides to tell Lexa the next part herself. She knows this will upset her, and better that Octavia, so newly celebrated, does not bear the brunt of the Empress’s displeasure if it is a problem.

“Empress,” she clears her throat. “There is more news, of greater import. It is… not pleasant.”

The Imperial mask falls, and suddenly Indra finds herself facing not her favorite protégée, but instead Alexandria, Empress of Rome. Full lips flatten into a sharp line, and when Alexandria nods, Indra knows she has fully insulated herself.

“There is a warrior queen of the Celts in Britain,” she begins, only to be interrupted.

“Boudica. Yes, I met her years ago, under a flag of truce.”

Indra winces. “Ah. Yes, Empress. Recently, Octavia received reports that this… Boudica… was in a conflict with the local Roman authorities. Apparently the local governor was attempting to take over some of her lands. It was… it’s Pike’s province.” The Empress clenches her jaw, but remains silent. “This Boudica, the Celtic queen – she resisted. Fought back. Roman legionnaires had her tied to a post and whipped as an example. They also attacked her daughters.” Indra rushes through this part, aware that it will raise Alexandria’s ire. The abuse of women had been one of the first things Alexandria had outlawed when she came into power.

The Empress’s jade eyes darken with anger as Indra speaks, and when the general is done, she exhales once, loudly. Her jaw clenches, and when she answers, her voice is pure cold. Indra half expects the air to chill around her. “Find the soldiers responsible,” Alexandria growls. “Find them, and bring them to me. Their crucifixion will be public. Their crimes on display for all of Rome to see.”

Indra grits her teeth. She knows the next part is the worst. “They were not Romans, Empress.”

Confusion flits across Alexandria’s face. “You just said…”

“They were dressed as legionnaires,” Indra explains. “But they were not. We have received reports from witnesses. They said the men who attacked Boudica and her family were unshaven and had long, light hair. Their skin was pale and they were taller than ordinary legionnaires.”

The Empress hisses through her teeth. “Nia. I knew she was up to something.” She begins to pace back and forth, muttering under her breath. “How did Visigoths get across my entire Empire? They must have been in disguise from the beginning… crossed as legionnaires.” She stops pacing and gives Indra a hard look. “Is there more? Was Pike involved? Did they speak of the Celts organizing? Is there an uprising?”

Indra does not know the information, so she looks reluctantly at Octavia, who steels herself before answering. “I do not believe _Proconsul_ Pike was aware of the Visigoths’ presence in his territory, Empress. I have seen no indication that he or his men were involved. He has sent _Praefect_ Bellamy au Aquilli to hunt down any Visigoths remaining in his provinces.” Octavia does not stumble over the name of her cousin, whom Indra knows to be a territorial governor on the eastern border with Britain, serving under the provincial governor there, Pike au Tullia. From what she has heard, Bellamy is ambitious, a self-entitled young diplomat with a desire to rise in Roman society. She cannot imagine that he shares blood with her courageous, selfless young protégée.

Octavia continues. “As for Boudica and the Celts, I have heard rumors from scouts who stopped at my camp on their way to their masters. The Celts are beginning to muster. It seems as if Boudica may be forming an army.”

Octavia’s voice is steady despite her words. Indra finds her herself once again forcing down a proud smile at the composure of her young _Primus_. Now _Praetor_. She knows it is not the time for such feelings, and she pushes them away ruthlessly.

The Empress is turning to Lincoln, issuing orders, and Indra and Octavia linger uncertainly for a moment. Indra turns to go, but Alexandria stops her with a raised palm. “Stay,” she commands, so Indra stays.

Several minutes later, a burly man in centurion garb enters the room, kneeling to the Empress. “Rise, Artigas,” the Empress says impatiently, then calls the man forward so that he stands level with Octavia and Indra as he receives her instructions. “Take a cohort of equestrians – no, less than a cohort, a century. Pick whichever you like, though not the First Cohort of the Fifth Legion. They need to rest before venturing out again. Or the First Cohort of the First Legion, for that matter. Take the Second Cohort of the Third Legion. I believe that they have been here in Rome for some time, and should be well rested. Ride as fast as you can to Britain, and meet with Boudica, the Celtic queen, on my behalf. Tell her that the attack on her people… on her family, was not of my doing. Tell her that we have a common enemy in Nia of the Visigoths. Boudica has no enemy in Rome. Tell her that if she wishes to avenge the wrongs done to her family, she will find no better ally.” She waits until Artigas nods his understanding. “Take whatever supplies you need. Gustus will give you a writ guaranteeing you hospitality from any Roman and offering payment for anything you might need to requisition on your journey. Make haste, Artigas. I trust you with a matter of great import today.”

Artigas bows once more, then strides out of the room, his steps echoing with purpose. The Empress watches him go, her expression blank. After some time, she turns back to Indra and Octavia, a rueful smile touching the corner of her lips. “You have given me much to think about tonight, general. And you, _Praetor_.” She sighs, beckoning Lincoln forward. “Please show warriors Furia and Aquilli to their rooms, Lincoln.”

The warriors bow, and make their way to the door, where Titus is still waiting. “Oh, and Octavia?” Alexandria calls out, and when they turn, her grin has become wicked. “I have heard legends of your skill at arms, but have not seen it for myself. See to that new blade of yours. You shall cross it with mine on the morrow.”

Octavia is still gaping as Lincoln ushers her out of the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary
> 
> Jus drein jus daun: Blood must have blood.  
> Fortem – Indra’s horse – the name means strength.  
> Praetor – a member of the Praetorian guard, the Empress’s private household guard. Also, a magistrate.  
> Vade en pace - Go in peace.  
> Gladius ¬– A curved Roman sword  
> Proconsul ¬– Governor of a province. A diplomat, not a military position.  
> Praefect – Could be a military term for a legion commander, but used here to denote the governor or overseer of a territory. This would be like a mayor of a city in the U.S.


	4. IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lexa gets a surprise, talks about Rome's future, and meets Clarke. Sort of. Also - sorry that this is a slightly shorter chapter and took so long to post! I'm in the process of closing on a house and moving, so there hasn't been much time for writing. I'm also leaving for a work trip this weekend, so the next chapter may be a bit delayed as well.

The sun is beginning to set as Lexa finally makes her way back to her chambers. She had spent the better part of the afternoon speaking with Indra and the rest of her generals and Marcus, alternating between military planning and determining the best way to communicate the latest happenings to the Senate. Lexa does not want to give too much away too quickly. She is still bothered by the Visigoths’ ability to make their way across the whole of Rome with no one the wiser, and she suspects that they had help from within her empire.   Perhaps those near the eastern border eager to curry favor with the Visigoths, or those in the west acting out of hatred for the Celts. Perhaps someone striking against Lexa herself. She knows she is vulnerable to this - there are factions in the Roman Empire who are angry with her for any number of reasons. Her increasingly inclusive practices, her extensive warmongering in the name of peace, her comparative lack of preferential treatment for the nobility. Her lack of male genitalia. They are common grievances, and she will not be able to narrow down a list of suspects without further information.

She sighs, grabbing the arm of a nearby servant girl and requesting wine. The girl glances shyly away from Lexa as she releases her, bowing deeply. Even in a simple dark roughspun wool tunic, she is pretty, a scarlet flush rising beneath the freckles on her cheeks. She is lithe, and working in the palace has made her strong for one with such a slight build. And if her shallow, quick breathing were any indication, the girl would be willing enough.

Still, she is a servant, and Lexa is well aware that “willing” may have a different connotation for one who is a step away from chains. She nods to the girl, sending her off for the wine and brushing past the Praetorian guarding her chamber this evening, a small, sharp looking man called Murphy. Lexa has been thinking of replacing him, and with Octavia’s acceptance of the position, Lexa thinks this will be Murphy’s last night guarding her. The thought makes her feel oddly lighter. The man has always made her feel unsettled, as if his unctuous manner could somehow be contagious.

As she disrobes, she wonders if she should call for one of the noblewomen she has been courting lately. Perhaps Miller’s wife – it is well known that that couple has little use for each other in the bedchamber, and Lexa knows the woman would be eager. She is thinking of sending a messenger when she sees the shadows flicker from the corner of her eye.

She spins away from the movement, reaching for and grabbing a long, thin dagger from the leather sheath strapped to her thigh. Even nearly naked, she does not remove her daggers. She is glad for this practice when she makes contact with flesh, catching her attacker by the collarbone and slamming them against the wall of her chamber, the dagger in her right hand pressed up against the flesh of a long, slender neck.

The adrenaline in her system sharpens her eyesight, and in the near dark of her room, she can make out the candle lit features and feminine form of Costia au Junia. She hisses and does not release the dagger. “How did you get in here?”

Costia’s brown eyes widen, and Lexa forces herself to ignore the way the other woman’s ample breasts rise and fall with her rapid breathing. She makes a squeaking sound, and Lexa shakes her roughly. “Answer me, woman.”

Her fear does not appear to be feigned, and Lexa pushes away the sliver of guilt that tries to embed itself in her chest. When she speaks, Costia’s voice is soft, trembling. “I… wanted to surprise you, my Empress. I did not intend to startle you. Surely you know that I do not mean you harm.”

Lexa knows no such thing. Although, now that she looks at her, Costia is dressed for a night of seduction. Her long, dark hair is curled and draped across one shoulder, and the deep blue nightdress she is wearing dips low and barely brushes the tops of her thighs, leaving little to the imagination. Her bare shoulders are taught with tension, and her hands are half-raised to Lexa’s, as if she wants to push the dagger away but is too afraid to touch the warrior woman who has her in such a hopeless position. Lexa feels hairline cracks start to form in her resolve.

“How did you get in here?” she repeats, and knows she will not release Costia until she has an answer to this question.

“One of your servants let me in,” the woman answers, a little more steadily this time. “The new one, with the freckles. I explained to her that I wanted to surprise you, to… comfort you, after a long day of ruling the Empire. She was quite enthusiastic at the idea of helping her Empress.”

It’s a plausible enough explanation. Sighing, feeling more tired than anything, Lexa allows the dagger to drop and rubs her eyes. “And my guard?” She questions, not sure she wants the answer.

“Murphy?” Costia asks, confusion in her eyes. Lexa cannot tell if she is faking it or not. “He has seen me here on several occasions. I believe he knows of our… relationship.” She pauses, and then adds, as if trying to make it better, “He did search me before he allowed me in.”

Lexa’s ire rises at the man’s incompetence. She feels sick at the thought of him putting his oily hands on the graceful woman in front of her. Costia au Junia is the daughter of a traitor, but she does not deserve to be manhandled by a grunt like Murphy in the name of Lexa’s safety. Lexa will discharge him tomorrow.

Tonight, she reaches for the ambassador, lifting a hand to her neck and brushing her thumb over the soft skin there, wincing when Costia flinches away. “I am sorry, Costia,” she apologizes, withdrawing her hand. “I was caught off guard. I did not intend to hurt you.”

She knows that her words lack truth, and Costia’s shrewd expression tells Lexa that the other woman knows it, too. Lexa would have killed her in a second if she thought her a true threat. The knowledge stands tall between them, stretching to form a wall that neither woman will reach across for several long minutes.  


Finally, Costia nods, accepting the situation. “I will announce my presence outside, in the future,” she offers, and seems to breathe easier when Lexa bobs her head in agreement. “For now,” she begins, tugging Lexa over to her bed and showing the Empress that in addition to lighting several candles, Costia had laid out a set of scented oils. “I thought we could relax. I heard that Indra au Fabia and the _Primus_ were back today, and when I did not see you… I thought you might have had a stressful time.”

Lexa does not respond immediately. It is a thoughtful gesture, and she cannot decide why Costia would do such a thing. She does not harbor any illusions that the woman has feelings for her, no more than Lexa has feelings for Costia. There is no love between them, so why this tenderness? But it is late, and she is tired, and heat pools between her thighs as she thinks of the woman beside her on top of her instead, running her skilled fingers along Lexa’s naked flesh, kneading the tension of the day away.

She turns to Costia and catches her lips with her own, pulling the other woman down, barely noticing when the freckled serving girl slips in with the wine and leaves just as quietly. Costia smiles into her mouth when she tears the soft nightdress away, reaching down to slide her fingers into the slick, wet heat between the other woman’s legs. For a long time, Lexa forgets about threats and war and responsibilities. She remembers only skilled hands and bare throats and soft, low moans.

Later, when they have finished their fucking and nearly two bottles of good Italian wine, Lexa lies listening to Costia breathe in the dark. She has never let this woman – or any woman – sleep in her bed, and the thought of doing so tonight strikes a bell of warning in her gut. Still, Costia is already asleep, and she is warm, so warm. Perhaps just for tonight, Lexa will let herself forget a little longer.

 --------------------------

She wakes to find an empty bed and doesn’t try to hide her relief. The basin at her bedside is full of fresh, tepid water, and she thinks that the servant must have been here again recently. She splashes it over her face and calls for a bath to be drawn, her skin still glistening with oil from the night before. Her sheets need changing, as well, and she sends the same girl – the young one with the freckles – to fetch her new ones. She should have her punished for allowing Costia in without an explanation, but she hasn’t the heart for it today. She will inform Luna, of course. The head of her household servants, Luna is strict but not unkind. The girl will not suffer for one innocent mistake, if that is what it truly was.

After her bath, Lexa calls for Titus to help her into her armor. She can get into it herself, but the process is burdensome and takes too long. She is wearing a simpler style this morning – a steel breastplate of the same make as the Praetorians wear, with the eagle of Rome emblazoned on the front. She chooses a simple legionnaire’s helm and a simple linked battle skirt. Her sword is a blunted version of the Praetorian’s _gladius –_ she had been exaggerating the day before when she had implied to Octavia that they would be using real blades. Without her advisors to object, Lexa might have considered such a bout a challenge, but she is too aware of the danger to Rome to risk a fool’s death at the hands of one of her own sworn bodyguards.

Titus remains by her side as she makes her way to the practice grounds, checking the sky to ensure that she has the time right. Marcus meets them there, his quick flash of a smile reassuring Lexa that all is well after yesterday’s news. Marcus may be beneath her in rank and skill both, but Lexa finds that he is a steadfast ally in a troubling time. She nods to him, once, and they make their way together past the practice grounds and towards the infirmary located across the courtyard.

Since hearing of the Amazon queen yesterday, Lexa has been curious to get a glimpse of the woman in question, to take her measure. She has not decided whether to reveal her knowledge of this woman’s status to her yet, but hopes that a meeting will give her a better idea.

As they walk, Marcus questions Lexa about whom she will make _Primus_ now that Octavia has been promoted. “I had thought that Aden au Julii would make a good choice,” he begins, naming a boy of Lexa’s own line. Her cousin, once removed. Anya’s boy. “He appears to be doing well with the First Cohort of the Fourth Legion, and by all means is an exceedingly brave soldier.”

Lexa has expected this argument, has prepared her answer. “Marcus, I know this is a ploy to get me to name an heir.”

The older man looks genuinely affronted, and Lexa can’t resist the urge to swat him in the arm at his theatrics. He sighs, aggrieved. “Alright, Empress, your keen foresight has me overmatched, as always.” She lifts an eyebrow at him, and he gifts her with a rare chuckle. “Still,” he insists, “It must be done. No matter your prowess, you are unlikely to get an heir on your usual conquests.”

Lexa’s jaw drops, and she struggles to keep her mouth closed and her eyes from bulging at his bluntless. “Marcus au Quinctilius,” she breathes, something like elation showing in her eyes. “Did you just make a joke about my sex life?”

He turns purple immediately, and Lexa’s liking for the conversation only deepens. “Well, they’re hardly suitable, at any rate,” he grouses. “Gods forbid the mother of the next Roman Emperor is that Junia woman.”

Lexa’s amusement fades instantly, and she looks guiltily off to the side. Not one to miss social cues, Marcus halts in shock. “Alexandria…”

She stops him with a raised hand, though he clearly isn’t happy with the order. “I am aware of Rome’s need for an heir, Marcus,” she dodges, bringing the subject back around. “And my … disinclination to produce one physically. I have asked Anya to attend me here at the palace at her convenience. It is my intention to ask for her son at that point.”

Her co-Consul is quiet for a moment, considering. She can tell he still wants to ask her about Costia, but she has rewarded him with a major victory by agreeing to seek out Aden as her presumptive heir, continuing the Julii line. They are almost at the infirmary by the time he nods, accepting her decision.

“That is well, Empress,” he acquiesces, and then asks, “But your _Primus_?”

She snorts. “Clearly I will not put the boy I aim to see rule Rome after me in such an exposed position. I will elevate Tris, the _pilus prior_ of the Third Cohort, to the position.” She glances at him as they round the corner. “Do you know of her?”

Marcus nods, his eyes darting to the side as if to fetch the memory. She can almost see him debating the wisdom of selecting yet another female _Primus_ , the third in an unbroken line. It is hard to tell how the legion would respond to such a legacy. “She is young,” is all he says.

Lexa flashes him a lightning-quick smile. “As I was young?” He blinks in surprise and rushes to correct himself, but she forestalls him again with a raised palm. “She is the best,” she answers, confidently. “And she is ready.”

He seems to trust her on this, and rightly so. She has, after all, held the position herself.

They reach the door of the infirmary and find Nyko, the head physician, waiting for them. He is a huge boulder of a man, his former slave’s tattoos stark against the corded muscles in his trunk-like arms and his bulging neck muscles. He looks as if he could rip a man in two without breaking a sweat. He looks nothing like the gentle healer he is. And right now, he looks nervous, shifting back and forth awkwardly as he waits for his Empress to arrive.

He drops into a deep bow as soon as they draw near, not rising until Lexa reaches out and taps him on the shoulder. “Nyko,” she greets him, gratified when Marcus echoes her greeting without hesitation. There are plenty of patricians in Rome who would not deign to speak to a slave as an equal, even a freed one. She is grateful that her co-Consul is so forward-thinking.

Nyko rises, and Lexa notices a thin sheen of sweat on his brow. What could have the man so nervous?

“Hail, Empress,” he greets, bowing again. “I understand that you are here to see the blonde Amazon, the one they call Clarke.”

He does not know of Clarke’s significance, then; still, she would have preferred that his information be slightly less specific. “I am here to see the new shipment,” she agrees, keeping a disinterested tone. “I have heard that this Clarke, in particular, shows spirit.”

That much was true, at least. Just two nights before, she’d received word of the prisoners chanting their war cry in the dead of night. It had terrified the healers and a number of other slaves, and by all reports, it had originated with the blonde. She might have been injured, but Lexa knew better than to underestimate a captive enemy, wounded or no.

Nyko swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, and Lexa can tell that he is remembering the same event. He is worried about her reaction, she realizes. “Yes, Empress,” he answers. “I have things well in hand now, though. She is sleeping, at the moment. We are… we are helping her sleep. Now that she is well enough, she snarls at anyone who gets too close. An aide who was trying to change her bandages yesterday ended up with a broken arm and two fewer teeth.”

Lexa narrows her eyes. She admires the woman’s spirit, but this will make her fledging plans for the woman more difficult to execute. She will need to keep this queen close, to assess her as a threat. She will either have to break her, or win her trust. There’s no way to know which path to choose until she meets her. But it seems that she will have to wait to do that properly.

“Will you at least point her out to me?” She asks, and at Nyko’s nod, she and Marcus follow him to the tent flap, looking past his gesturing arm to the woman sleeping inside. They do not enter the tent, but Lexa can see a slender form lying on a cot in the center of the room, chest rising and falling in sleep.

Even in the low light, she can see that the woman is beautiful. She looks like no Amazon Lexa has ever seen. Blonde hair falls loosely into her face, framing surprisingly delicate features. There is a small mole above her lip. She is slight, but somehow she looks strong even in sleep. She is shifting in her sleep, as if she has unpleasant dreams. Lexa wonders if she is responsible for the memories those dreams are inspired by.

There is a strange pressure in her chest. She stands there for several minutes – she has no idea how long – until Marcus clears his throat behind her. “Alexandria?” He says, and his voice is full of questions. “Your match with Octavia. You’ll be late.”

Her eyes are dry when she turns back to him, and she wonders if she has not been blinking. “Of course,” she agrees, and hates the strain in her voice. “Right away. Send her to me tomorrow,” she orders Nyko.

He bows in acknowledgement as she leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Clarke is totally unconscious the first time Lexa sees her. But stay tuned - in the next chapter Lexa fights Octavia and the Clexa REALLY meets for the first time!
> 
> Oh, and P.S. - if anyone's interested in helping me beta this fic, you can find me on Twitter at jaimeajamais4. My wife's helping now, but she keeps telling me I'm tainting sweet baby Lexa. ;)


	5. V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the length of time between this update and the last! I bought a new house, moved in, went on a business trip, and spent the week with my wife's parents, so writing time was pretty limited! Also, I got a serious case of writer's block and then rewrote the meeting scene three times. I hope you guys like it!

Dim light seeps through the cracks in the tent flaps when Clarke is shaken roughly awake by one of the Roman healers. The healer, a slight, nervous young man, flinches and darts back as she sits up, and she allows herself a moment of satisfaction before a legionnaire is jerking her up and out of bed. Her new scar stretches unpleasantly, but she knows that the skin is healed enough now to stay together despite the rough treatment.

“Get off me,” she snarls, pivoting around to swing at the soldier, but he catches her arm and twists it painfully behind her back.

“You go to work today, Amazon,” he rumbles, and Clarke feels herself go still with foreboding. What will they have her doing? Will she be cleaning latrines?   Polishing armor for Roman soldiers? Bait for the fighting pits? A bed slave to one of the Roman generals, or worse, the Empress herself? She does not want to think on what the future might hold for her in the fortress of her enemies.

The soldier stops walking, and Clarke blinks in surprise at the brevity of the journey as a curtain is pulled aside and Clarke is thrust roughly into a cramped room on the other side of the infirmary. The space is stone on three sides, but the last is open to the air, with curtains to separate it from the camp that the Amazons are currently occupying. Potted plants of various shapes and sizes line the wall, and Clarke recognizes several of them for their medicinal properties. At least two, she knows, can be used to kill as well as to heal. There are four plain white cots laid out in the center of the area, identical to the one Clarke has just been jostled out of, and there is a large ewer of water in the corner. Three of the beds are empty, but the fourth contains a small, still body. The air smells of herbs and the sharp, acrid odor of alcohol. In the center of the room sits Nyko, the head healer. Clarke recognizes him from his rounds with the women of her tribe. The man is a giant – he would be impossible to miss.

He lifts his head as she enters – is forced to enter – and smiles softly. “Clarke, isn’t it?” He says, and his voice is gentle. The tone of his low, deep voice is soothing and even, although Clarke can see the spark of something wary in his chocolate eyes. “I have heard you are a healer amongst your people.”

            Clarke narrows her eyes at him. “Heard from who?” she demands, and wonders if there is a traitor hidden in her tribe, someone who has been speaking to the Romans.

            He merely smiles, shaking his head. “You have been assigned here to help me with the palace’s medical needs. You will help me treat patients, clean the infirmary, and on the days when it is necessary, you will travel with an escort into town to purchase supplies. There is a great deal I can teach you, and I am hopeful that there are things that you can teach me, too.”

            Clarke bites back a sharp retort, angry with the man for his gentle tone. “I am not anyone’s slave,” she grinds out, “And I will not heal Romans. Kill me if you must, but I will not stretch out one finger to help my enemy. Better for me and mine if all of you die.”

            Nyko blinks rapidly, digesting her words. Instead of reacting in anger, as she’d expected, he merely tilts his head to the side as he regards her. “Why did you become a healer, Clarke?” he asks quietly.

            She shifts back, the question taking her by surprise. What right does he have to ask her such questions? “I’m not here for games, old man,” she finally snarls, even though he is not much older than she is.

He doesn’t respond, simply waits, and Clarke stares back at him for several moments until she gives in. “To make people better,” she answers honestly. “To fix things that are broken.”

He nods thoughtfully. “Only Amazon people?”

She glares at his stupid Roman head. “Obviously,” she says, and then adds, “And friends of the Amazons. Not Roman _branwadas_.”

He doesn’t react to the foreign insult. She doesn’t know if it’s because he doesn’t understand or because he is just difficult to offend. “Amazons are no friend to Rome,” he says, simply. “Yet I have cared for your people.”

Clarke gapes at him. “Yes,” she bites out, something in her tone causing the soldier behind her to step closer. “After _your_ people hurt them.”

The man turns and reaches for a mortar and pestle and a waxy green plant, snapping a stem and two leaves off and beginning to grind them. His look is patient. “And have your people never hurt mine?”

Her temper is rising and she feels the urge to strangle this oddly calm man who is giving her a moral lecture while most of her tribe lies dead and the rest are slaves within the very walls of the place he calls home. “You started this war. You invaded our lands,” she growls, stepping forward.

In an instant the legionnaire is on her again, her arms both behind her back now, pulled painfully inward. She decides she has had enough. Rearing back, she slams the strongest part of her skull against his face, causing him to reel back and clutch his nose. She takes another snarling step towards Nyko, but does not touch him.

To his credit, the man doesn’t budge. “Two wrongs do not make a right, Clarke of the Skaikru. Romans hurt Amazons hurt Romans and so on and so forth, and the cycle never ceases. I am a healer. I do not care for war. My job is not to bring death, but to thwart it.”

He regards her for a long moment, searching her furious face. She does not know why she hasn’t killed him yet, why she hasn’t moved more than those first angry steps. The legionnaire is calling for reinforcements, and she knows she will have only moments before they are on her.

“Your time here will not be easy, young one,” Nyko is adding. “I know that you are unused to peace, but you might learn to think of this place as a refuge. No one will expect you to fight here. Perhaps if you spend your time healing others, you will begin to heal yourself as well.”

She is still staring at him when the reinforcements burst into the room. They move toward her, but Nyko holds up a hand to halt them, still studying her intently. She takes a deep breath and then a final step forward. This is the best she could have hoped for in Rome, she thinks. A gentle master, a trade she loves, and a chance to soothe her soul.

It is not why she sits down. Nyko is clearly the type of man to trust easily, and she will play his game. She eyes the herbs growing along the wall again. She will bide her time here, in a place where she will have access to everything she needs to save her people. She will work and heal and keep her head down until he trusts her, and she will watch her sisters, and listen, and wait.

Nyko smiles at her and hands her the mortar and pestle.

\------------------------------------------------

Octavia does not know what she expected a fight with the Empress of Rome to be like, but it was not this. The Empress moves like a panther, all sleek, fluid grace. Her shoulders remain steady, not giving away even a flicker of her intention before she is stepping forward, testing with a low, off-side sweep to the bottom of Octavia’s ribcage. She pivots, letting the jab slide near but past her, bringing her weight to bear on her right leg as she sweeps her own gladius high for a blow to the Empress’s arm. She hesitates, though, not wanting to hurt the other woman, and is rewarded for her efforts by a sound smack on her stomach with the flat of the Empress’s blade.

Alexandria says nothing when Octavia meets her gaze, merely narrowing her eyes in annoyance. Octavia gets the point. No coddling.

The day is too hot for this, and both women have shed their metal breastplates in favor of the padded practice tunics underneath. Octavia had wanted to protest, had been afraid of hurting the Empress without her armor on, but Lincoln had spoken quietly in her ear, warning her not to question it. She found herself trusting the tall, gentle man almost implicitly, despite having only known him for one day. Something about his presence was soothing, completely at odds with his rough, muscular appearance and foreign air. And the fact that he was the most attractive man she’d ever seen didn’t hurt, either.

Her legs are swept out from under her, and Octavia forces herself back into the fight, rolling as her body hits the ground, spinning and regaining her footing as the Empress comes at her again. The Empress is far too good to be a politician, and Octavia wonders ruefully how she could ever forget that the woman in front of her was the first female _Primus_ in the history of Rome.

Lincoln had warned her that the other woman would be good, but somehow Octavia had still underestimated the swift, lupine grace with which she moved and the utter viciousness of her attacks. She’s already executed several moves that Octavia knows are not taught by the legion, and she wonders where the Empress picked them up.

She ducks under the next blow, lashing out quickly with her right arm in a move that’s more boxing jab than sword blow. The Empress dances back out of the way, but not quite in time, and Octavia can see by the way her eyelids squeeze together that she’s hit her mark.

She presses the advantage, coming in close, executing a series of rapid attacks that the Empress parries, though not without difficulty. They are stepping back steadily, towards the edge of the practice ring, and Octavia is beginning to think that she may finally have the advantage when the Empress gives her a quick, rakish grin and spins out of the way. Octavia, overbalanced, takes a stumbling step forward, then falls to her knees as she feels a quick strike to the back of her knee by a booted foot. A moment later, the blunted edge of the Empress’s practice blade is at her throat, and she hears a deep, cultured voice purring in her ear. “Good work, _Praetor._ ”

Octavia flushes crimson, swallowing hard against the shame of being beaten by the woman she’s supposed to be protecting. “A good fight, Empress,” she forces herself to answer as the Empress steps back, allowing Octavia to stand.

“Alexandria,” the other woman replies, studying her, her face bright. She is not even breathing heavily, Octavia notes with despair. After a moment, the Empress’s words kick in, and Octavia looks up quickly. She opens her mouth to protest, but the Empress beats her again.

“In public, you will still address as me as your Empress, but when we are alone, or when we are with only other Praetorians, you may address me by name. I would prefer it.” For a moment, Octavia only stares at her in disbelief.

The Empress – Alexandria – turns and begins walking towards the edge of the ring where Lincoln and Marcus are waiting, and Octavia follows after a moment. A servant is waiting beside them with clean cloths and a pail of water for them to drink from. Alexandria takes a long sip from the cup she has dipped into the pail, offering another cup to Octavia, who takes it gratefully.

“So, _Praetor_ ,” Alexandria questions once they have both drunk their fill, “Did you learn anything today?”

She has been expecting the question, although she had expected that it would be Lincoln who would be asking. He had asked her all sorts of questions about her technique and training the day before while he was walking her to her quarters. She would have thought he was just trying to get her measure, but he seemed genuinely interested in the answers.

She considers her response for a long moment. “You used several moves that I hadn’t seen before. You use the forward weight in your legs almost as much as the back. You choreograph your punches in one move, but don’t do it in the next. Either you do it on purpose to throw off your opponent, or you’ve been trained two different ways. You also sacrifice your body and your position in favor of a killing blow down the line. You fight like a tavern brawler,” she jokes, and then immediately goes white. _Vulcan’s hairy ass,_ she curses herself, _Why on earth did you think it was okay to say that to the EMPRESS OF ROME?_

One sculpted eyebrow arches toward the sky, and Octavia can see Lincoln tensing up out of the corner of her eye. The Empress regards Octavia coolly, and Octavia is starting to worry that perhaps she won’t be a _Praetor_ for very long after all when Alexandria lets out a light chuckle.

“Perhaps someday I’ll explain that anomaly to you. For now, _Praetor_ , what you need to understand is that your fighting is nearly flawless. It’s textbook Roman military – you execute those moves better than ninety percent of the soldiers I’ve seen, and that include high-ranking officers.” Octavia swells with pride. She wishes that Indra could be here to hear this.

But Alexandria’s not done. “How did I beat you?” She questions.

“You were faster.”

“Yes. And?”

“And you used moves I hadn’t seen before.”

Alexandria nods emphatically once. “Yes. And?”

Octavia thinks she knows what the other woman’s looking for. “And I was too confident.”

Green eyes flicker upward in confirmation and amusement, and even though Alexandria’s lips don’t move, Octavia would swear she’s smiling anyway. “Yes. Partly. Confidence is necessary in battle. Hesitation will cost you your life. But there is a balance to be struck. Your confidence makes you aggressive and is part of why you’re such a good soldier. But it will make for a poor protector. You are used to attacking your enemy. Now, you will have to learn to defend. You will have to learn to observe your opponent, to think beyond what your next move will be to what _their_ next move will be. You cannot defend me solely with the strength in your arms, Octavia. I shall require your mind, as well.”

The younger woman flushes but nods slowly, digesting Alexandria’s words. It’s true – she is unused to acting as a bodyguard, much more familiar with offensive fighting from her time in the legion. She will have to learn a different fighting style for this post. Perhaps she can weave them together, to round out her skill set. “I will remember, Empress,” is all she can say, and then, quickly, “Alexandria. I will learn.”

The Empress seems satisfied by this response. “You will, and from the best. Every morning that you are not guarding me, report here at the tenth hour. You will train with Gustus, the head of my household guard. There is no better teacher for the type of training you need. ” Marcus leans forward to whisper in her ear, and Octavia watches her shoulders rise and square, her expression shuttering closed. “I must go,” she says simply, and then, “You fought well today.”

Octavia stares at the back of the abruptly departing Empress, taking a deep breath when the woman is out of earshot. Lincoln is still watching from outside the posts, assessing her. He smiles when he catches her eye, walking over and taking her cup from her only to refill it and hand it back. “You fight like a damned tiger, woman,” he says approvingly.

She feels her face warm at the compliment, trying not to think about how close he is standing to her. She’s known this man for hours only, and the strength of the pride she feels at his words surprises her. His opinion should not matter so much.  She feels a moment of curiosity, and then flashes him a winning smile.

“You’ve seen me fight, but the opposite is untrue. I seem to be at a disadvantage. Care to fight a tiger, Lincoln?” She is already putting the cup down and striding back across the ring, picking up the two swords from where they had been leaning against another post. She turns toward him, holding one out in invitation, eyebrows raised.

He just grins at her and takes off his shirt. Octavia feels her mouth go dry at the sudden appearance of the man’s muscled, tattooed chest. _Holy gods, that’s distracting. Maybe this was a bad idea._ She can’t afford to lose focus, not when the Empress herself is trusting her with her life. She tamps down all thought of attraction and tosses him the sword.

 ----------------------------------------

Clarke has been working in the infirmary with Nyko for the better part of the day, preparing healing poultices and tinctures. She has been trying desperately to hold on to her anger throughout the order, reminding herself that despite the fact that she likes healing, being forced to heal your enemy is hardly a kindness. That she likes the work does not matter. It is slave labor, all the same.

She looks up as the curtain to the rest of the infirmary is brushed aside, slightly surprised to see two tall Roman centurions in full armor waiting for her. Nyko stands from the bench beside her, his burly form throwing a shadow over the fading lamplight as he turns to her. “The Empress has requested to see you,” he says, gesturing to the guards. “They’re here to escort you to her.”

The Amazon is genuinely shocked by this. The Empress wants to see her? Why? Does she _know_? Does she think she can use Clarke somehow to keep her people in line? If so, she doesn’t know much about Amazonian leadership. She glances back at the guards, waiting silently, and then at Nyko. “And if I don’t agree to this ‘request?’”

He sighs, face etched with weary determination. “Then it will become a command. Just go with them, Clarke.”

She bristles at his words, prepared to argue, but the guards at the door shift closer and she knows that she won’t win. Instead, she just nods and stands, moving to the door and allowing the guards to escort her down the halls of the palace towards the throne room.

They knock before they enter, and then she is being thrust into a long stone chamber. There are torches in sconces lining the walls, and slitted windows allow the fading daylight to stream through. Her steps echo on the marble floor, and as she raises her head she sees the throne at the end of the hall. And the figure sitting there.

Clarke has never seen the Empress of Rome except in the likeliness stamped on Roman coin. She had heard legends of her beauty, but this… Alexandria au Augustus is _stunning_. She is backlit by the light from the one larger window in the room, and the effect of the lighting combined with the height from her throne makes her look as if she is more goddess than mortal. Her long, brown hair is pulled back neatly into several intricate braids, laurels resting on the crown of her head. She is wearing a royal purple sash over her silk toga, which looks impossibly expensive. Her long, slender hands hold a staff with an eagle about to take flight carved atop it, and her pink, full lips are turned up at the corners as if she is somehow pleased by Clarke’s presence. And her eyes... her eyes are the forests that Clarke calls home, the rich, moss green of the ground of Clarke’s favorite clearing. She feels pierced by the gaze, unable to look away, unwilling to blink and lose, even for one moment, the sight that’s burning its way into her memory.

She hates herself for the static tingles that run up her spine and down, down through her arms and stomach and legs. She hates that she’s _attracted_ to this butcher. She hates Alexandria au Augustus even more. She clenches her fists.

The centurions release her and step back, leaving her standing in front of the most powerful woman in the world, wondering if she can reach her and rip out her throat before the guards get to her. Beside her, a tall, muscular man barks out an order for her to kneel. When she does not, the man moves forward, but the Empress raises an imperious hand, and he halts.

“You’re the one who’s been terrorizing my healers.” The Empress’s voice is deeper than Clarke would have imagined.

Clarke does not flinch at the sharpness in her tone. “You shouldn’t have captured and killed my people. Did you expect me to be civil?”

The Empress tilts her head to the side, looking as if she’s considering this. Clarke almost scoffs at the woman’s arrogance. “There are many unexpected things about you, Clarke of the Skaikru. For instance, I hear you speak Gallic and also one of the Celtic languages, in addition to Latin and your… Trigedasleng. I might find use in that.”

Clarke forces her expression to remain neutral, not to give away her surprise what the Empress is saying. This is the second time a Roman has revealed personal knowledge about her that they should have no way of knowing. One of her people is talking to them. She is going to have to find out whom it is. Out loud, she says sharply, “I have no interest in being useful to you.”

“You may wish to find some. You find yourself in a different set of circumstances than those you were in a week ago, but the transition need not be unpleasant. I am in need of a skilled translator and scribe to assist with several diplomatic negotiations that I will be carrying out in the months to come. You will serve in that role.”

Clarke can’t believe what she’s hearing. Her fists clench tighter at her sides, arms shaking from the anger slowly filling her. This woman, who ordered the attack on her people, who put them in chains, who put _her_ in chains, expects her to demur and nod and _work for her_? “You may be the Empress of Rome, but you don’t rule me. There is no way in hell that I’m going to help you do anything.”

There is a movement to the right, and a woman Clarke did not see before steps out of the shadows. It is the centurion from the battlefield. Clarke has only seen this woman once before, but she will never forget her face. The same intensity, the same set in her shoulders, the same quick reflexes as the centurion crosses the room in two quick strides and slaps Clarke full in the face. “You will speak to the Empress with more respect,” she growls, and Clarke’s vision goes red.

Behind the stinging in her cheek she can feel the rage growing and spilling over. This is the woman who led the attack on her village. Who paralyzed Raven. Who _killed her mother_. “You,” she snarls, hatred twisting her voice into a low rasp, and then she is surging forward, hands flying in a barrage of blows, striking at the centurion in blind fury. “I’ll kill you, you bitch! I’ll kill you!”

The centurion is taken off guard and gives ground for a moment, but recovers quickly. She’s a better fighter than Clarke, and it’s only a moment before the blonde finds herself on the ground, the skin of her cheekbone rapidly purpling from the punch the centurion managed to land. There are hands on her arms and then she is hauled roughly to her feet, her arms behind her, the woman panting and jerking her to a stop before the Empress.

Alexandria has not moved throughout the altercation, the set of her body radiating boredom. Her eyes flicker between the two women before her, and she sighs as she leans her staff against the wall. She regards Clarke silently for several moments, frowning, before she speaks. “You are fighting the wrong enemy, Clarke. My First Spear may have struck the blow that killed your mother, but the order came from my lips. If you are going to pick a fight you cannot win, at least be certain of your foe.”

Clarke doesn’t even feel the bruises on her skin or the pain in her body as she lunges forward and spits straight into the face of the Empress of Rome. She doesn’t feel anything as the centurion slams her to the ground again, a knee going into her back, holding her down. She doesn’t care that the Empress knows who she is, that her biggest advantage is no advantage at all. She feels only a burning, black rage and hatred towards the women in this room, towards the tyrant in that chair and everything she represents. She is still struggling to get up, to fight, to _kill_ , but she is lifted roughly up and then slammed against the floor again, so hard her head is spinning and she thinks that she might vomit all over this precious marble floor. Through the haze, she hears the Empress speak.

“Enough, Octavia. She is subdued. Take her to the prison for now. I will deal with her later.”

Clarke is hauled to her feet, blood dripping down her face, and dragged from the throne room by the two centurions who had originally escorted her in. She glances over her shoulder as she leaves to see the Empress wiping the spit from her face, surprise finally showing on her features. The Amazon smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo, that went well. :) Let me know if you guys ever need refreshers on any of the Roman terms - I stopped defining them but can start back up if reminders would be helpful. I'll still define it if I introduce something new. Thanks for all your sweet comments, I really appreciate them!


	6. VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How do people write 10k word chapters? This one's half that and it took me like two weeks. Sorry for the wait! This is Lexa's reaction to their meeting (sort of), we get to meet Anya, Clexa has a little prison chat and then Lexa goes drinking with Gustus.

Minutes after Clarke is escorted out of the throne room, Lexa is still remembering the flash of cerulean eyes, the flush of porcelain cheeks, the strength of clenching jaw muscles. She had expected the Amazon to be angry; had made sure Octavia was in the room when Clarke was brought in. She had wanted to provoke a reaction, to take the Amazon’s measure. By all accounts, the new Queen of the Skaikru was not a warrior – at least, not more than any Amazon was – but a healer instead. Lexa had not been sure if she would be docile in captivity or would truly be a leader of her warlike people, and thus a threat to Lexa and to Rome. Clearly, it would be the latter.

Her thoughts are interrupted by Titus, who is thumping his chest and bowing before the throne. “The Amazon is secure in her cell, Empress. I have ensured that she will be well treated, as you commanded.”

She nods her thanks and dismisses him, going back to her pondering. The woman is capable of rallying the Amazons to fight Rome if she can get word to her people that she is captive. Perhaps it was a mistake after all for Octavia to have let that warrior go after the battle. She could be warning the others, could even now be rallying the tribes to fight the Romans. Alone, she does not think the Amazons could damage Rome, but if she is forced to split her attention between Visigoths in the east, the Amazons in the northwest and now possibly the Celts in the southwest… she has never liked fighting a battle on more than one front.

There is another problem, as well. Now that Clarke is aware that Lexa knows who she is, she will be more circumspect in her communications. There won’t be as much opportunity for Octavia or the few other Roman guards who speak Trigedasleng to overhear her conversations. Lexa hadn’t intended to reveal that bit of information so quickly, but she’d been so shocked at the Amazon’s rage and her _beauty_ that she had just blurted the knowledge out. It is unlike her to make such a mistake. She sighs, allowing herself to rub at her forehead tiredly.

Only Lincoln is in the room with her; Octavia had left shortly after Clarke, ordered to the healer’s compound by Lexa herself. She hadn’t wanted to leave the Empress, still apologizing for letting the Amazon get so close to Lexa, but Lexa had made her go. She’ll have Lincoln teach Octavia better methods of restraining prisoners later. For now, she needs her Praetors healthy, and she needs Octavia and her seething anger at the Amazon out of her throne room. Her evening will not be pleasant, but at least she can face it with Lincoln’s calming influence at her side.

As if on cue, there is a knock on the door, and she hears a voice – Gustus’s – booming through it, announcing her cousin’s arrival. He enters first, followed by a tall, elegant woman with a slender, fox-like face. Her toga is a deep crimson, made of good wool but not silk, as is appropriate for a member of the Senate. Her bow, when she reaches Lexa, is the perfect depth – appropriate to show deference, but not so much that she ignores the power that she does have. Anya has never been one to give up anything to which she is entitled, respect most of all. She remains silent, until Lexa speaks.

“Ave, Anya au Julii,” she greets formally, leaning forward in her seat. “Rise, cousin. And thank you for coming. I know your schedule has been busy as of late.” She makes sure her tone conveys both gratitude and displeasure. She had summoned Anya nearly a week ago, and the woman did not live far from the palace.

“Ave, Empress,” Anya replies, echoing Lexa’s formality. “I regret that my business kept me from attending on you sooner.” Her expression is carefully schooled into blankness, and Lexa cannot tell if she is being sincere or not. She suspects not.

She likes her cousin well enough – loves her even, in her own way. They are all the family they have, and though she was raised apart from Anya for much of her life, she still feels a great affection for the older woman. But she is about to ask an impossible thing of her cousin, and Anya knows it.

There is a long beat of silence, and Lexa debates engaging in small talk. Asking Anya about her estate, or their family’s olive groves or their ships. She debates asking Anya to dine with her, filling the woman up with wine before asking her favor. But they both know what she is here for, and no amount of insulation Lexa can give will soften the blow. She decides to get to the heart of the matter.

“Aden is performing well in the legion, Anya. You should be proud. He has surpassed many of the other centurions his age and his cohort is one of the strongest in the legion. His soldiers speak well of his intelligence and courage. By all accounts, he is a just and honorable leader.” Anya merely nods, as if she expected to hear these praises being heaped on her son by the Empress of Rome. Lexa says the words, wishing all the while that she could hold them back. “I would take him as my heir.”

“You cannot have him.” The swiftness of the reply takes them both by surprise, a look of disbelief at her own boldness flickering across Anya’s face before the blank mask is back. Still, she lifts her head, unwilling to take back her words.

Lexa purses her lips and looks at the ground, then back up at Anya. This is _necessary._ “I am not asking.”

Anya laughs, a disbelieving, bitter sound, crosses her arms and turns away. “So you will take my son from me? Take him as your own, pretend you were the one who raised and clothed and fed him? You cannot tell me that there is no other, Alexandria. Do not do this.” Her voice holds a pleading note now, the proud cast of her features melded into something softer, smaller.

Anya is a mother, Lexa reminds herself, and this must cause her pain beyond end. Her son will become Lexa’s son, officially, and he will renounce his previous family to become part of Lexa’s. It is what Lexa herself did, all those years ago. Her parents were beyond grieving her then, but Anya was not. Although Anya could not do so in public, Lexa had been told by the family servants that the older woman had grieved for weeks when Lexa was chosen as the heir to the Roman Empire. Even then, her cousin understood the weight that came with the title.

“He is a Julii,” she insists, forcing herself to continue. “And I need an heir. He is needed, for the good of all Rome. There is no other.” Her palms slip on the throne, and she realizes that they have started to sweat. She folds her hands in her lap.

Anya seems to realize that she has been defeated. She slumps, unhappy, but then straightens again and lifts her head, her brief moment of humanity forgotten. “So be it. If my son is fated to rule Rome after your death, then I will not stand in the way of the path the gods have chosen for him. I will prepare him for your household.”

Lexa allows herself to feel the relief flooding through her body. She has not relished this conversation, but it is over. She has what she needs. “Thank you, cousin. Gustus will come for the boy in a week. See that he is ready.”

Gray eyes harden and, for a moment, Lexa thinks that her cousin will refuse her again. But Anya merely makes a shallow bow. “It shall be as you say, Empress.” She turns to go, Gustus flanking her as they make their way toward the hall, and then turns back. “Treat him well, Alexandria.”

Lexa meets her gaze, unable to give her cousin the assurance she craves. “I will treat him in accordance with his station and his duty, Anya. It is all I can offer.”

Her cousin just turns and walks away.

 

\--------------------------------------

 

            Clarke isn’t sure how long she’s been in the cell, but judging by the number of meals she’s consumed and the way she’s beginning to smell, she thinks it must have been about four days. The first day or so, the guards had been coming in with the meals, but they’d learned after she’d managed to get a knife away from one and stab him through the thigh with it. Now they just set them down outside the door, pushing them through a slab in the stone with a long stick. Clarke had tried to take the stick, but to no avail.

            She isn’t being treated poorly – quite the opposite, all things considered. She has been fed regularly, plain but solid meals of bread and cheese and olives, and has been given a bucket to relieve herself in and a good wool blanket to spread over her straw mattress. Nyko had even been allowed in to see her on the first day. He had checked over her wounds with something resembling sympathy, but had said nothing to her aside from telling her to rest and giving her a poultice for her head.

            She went to sleep the first night wondering if she would wake up in the morning, but wake up she did, and she kept waking up, day after day in this gods-forsaken cell. She misses her home, misses the smell of clean, fresh air after a summer rain and the feeling of soft, springy moss under her feet. She misses the thrill of climbing a tall tree and watching the road below and the sound of her mother’s laughter as Clarke told her about some of the wilder ways her sisters would injure themselves. Clarke misses her _freedom_. She does not do well in confined spaces.

            If nothing else, though, it gives her time to think. Mostly she thinks about her tribe and how to get them out of this mess. Sometimes she thinks about Raven, or her mother. Sometimes she thinks about the fight with black-haired centurion and how she will not lose the next one. Occasionally, she thinks about how best to go about killing the Empress. She tries not to think about that too much, however – fantasies of overpowering Alexandria, of sitting atop her with her hands around her neck, strangling her, turn too quickly into thoughts of something else, less lethal but no more gentle. She tries not to think about the image of forest-green eyes that is burned into the back of her eyelids.

            She hears a scuffling outside, and then the murmur of voices.   Breakfast time already? It is hard to keep track of the hours in her stone cell, but she thinks it is too early. She doesn’t have much time to reflect on it, however, as the cell door swings open and the Empress of Rome strides in.

            Despite being alone in a cell with a dangerous prisoner, one who has already proven herself willing to attack armed guards, Alexandria au Augustus does not look even the slightest bit afraid. Her sash today is crimson instead of purple, and she is not wearing the crown of laurels that Clarke noticed the last time they met. Otherwise, she looks much the same, and Clarke struggles with her awareness of how different they must look. Alexandria, radiant and godlike, with bronzed skin and toned muscles and a graceful air. Clarke, huddled on her bed, filthy and bruised. She hates herself for caring what she looks like.

            “Clarke of the Skaikru,” the Empress greets, inclining her head just a sliver. “I trust you are feeling better.”

            Clarke fixes her with piercing blue eyes, trying to divine the other woman’s intentions. “Much,” she manages to bite out. She cannot find it in herself to be civil to this murderer.

            “And have you rethought your earlier decision? Will you aid me as I have asked?”

            “I don’t recall there being much in the way of asking, Empress,” she says, nearly spitting out the last word. The Empress blinks at her, and Clarke thinks it’s as good as a flinch. Good. She remembers what it feels like to have Clarke spit on her. “And I stand by my word. There is no way in hell that I will ever help you do anything.”

            The Empress merely tilts her head, looking down at Clarke curiously. “I see. That does put us at a bit of an impasse. Tell me, Clarke, do you care for your people?”

            It feels like a trap. She knows it is a trap, but cannot see a way around it. “I do,” she says cautiously.

            A nod, and the beginnings of a smirk, the quick press of lips, there and gone in an eye blink. “If that is the case, would you help me if, in doing so, you helped your own people?”

            Clarke narrows her eyes at the other woman. She knows that the Empress cannot be trusted. The woman is a tyrant, a _Roman politician_ , and politicians rarely get to power by keeping their promises. “When have you ever cared about my people?” she demands, anger beginning to rise in her again. _Finally._ “Not two weeks ago you ordered us all killed.”

            The Empress shrugs. “The situation has changed, as have my needs. I need a skilled translator and scribe, and you can provide that for me. As an Amazon queen, I can treat you as a guest, as a diplomatic advisor.” She pauses, and the look she turns on Clarke now is inscrutable, almost hesitant, as if she doesn’t really want to say what she’s going to say next. Clarke braces herself. “But the rest of your people serve Rome. They will serve in whatever capacity they are most suited to. Some may stay here in the palace, of course, to be given jobs serving with my household staff, but many, I think, will go to the fighting pits and the _Colosseum_. It will be a great draw, to see the famed Amazons pitted against the great beasts and fighting men of Rome.”

            It takes a moment for her words to sink in, but when they do, Clarkes bares her teeth in a growl at the woman before her. They would put her people in chains, force them to fight each other like animals. There was no honor in fighting for sport, no glory in killing an enemy off the field of battle. She would not give them brave deaths in battle, but ignominious ones in front of a jeering crowd of lesser people. Clarke will not allow it. She eyes the short sword at the Empress’s waist, weighing her options.

            “You can try to kill me, of course,” the Empress says, lounging back against the cell wall, sounding bored. “It won’t help. My successor will not offer you this bargain, I assure you, and you will die for nothing. Your people will still go to the pits. I am your best option at the moment.”

            Clarke knows that this, at least, is the truth. She grits her teeth and looks up, directly into the other woman’s eyes. The Empress’s body language, relaxed and unfurled, radiates arrogance and boredom and distaste, but her eyes… Her eyes are saying something else entirely. Something more like _trust me_. Something more like _I’m sorry._

            She breaks their gaze. “Or? I’m assuming you have some alternative to offer?”

            The Empress nods, swallowing as she turns away, her back half to Clarke but her eyes still wary and trained on the Amazon. “Or I can protect them. Make them members of my household staff. Fighting in the pits will give them a chance to earn their freedom, but it will likely cost most of them their lives. In my household, servants are given a weekly stipend for their work. It is unorthodox, but many use the money to buy their own freedom eventually. I allow it, in exchange for good service. I can offer that to your people.”

            Clarke is astonished. Never has she heard of anything like this before – surely, this is not how all Romans handle their slaves. She would know if it were. In fact, she’s specifically heard that the Empress is known for being a stern slave master. What is the truth in all of this?

            She forces herself to remember that none of this makes the Empress kind, or beneficent, or _good_. Killing almost entire tribes of people and then forcing the survivors into slavery so they can work to buy themselves back the freedom you stole in the first place – it’s hardly admirable. In fact, Clarke almost thinks it is worse – does this Empress have the delusion that what she’s doing is somehow _better_ because it isn’t necessarily permanent? That she’s being _magnanimous_ somehow by giving people their lives back after years of forced servitude? Clarke feels sick to her stomach.

            Still, she cannot see a better alternative for her people, not right now. At least if they’re all in the palace they can still see each other, can still plan a way out. At least they might survive long enough for Harper to reach the others and stage a rescue. It’s the only thing Clarke can think of to keep her people safe. So despite everything she feels, the anger at the cruelty of Rome and her situation and her loathing of the green-eyed Empress who put her in this cell, she takes the deal.        

            The Empress smiles, and Clarke can only feel revulsion at the way it makes her stomach flip.

 

\-------------------------------------

 

            “That went better than I expected, to be honest,” Gustus said, pulling at his beard. “It seems that Anya recognizes her duty to Rome after all.”

            Lexa simply dips her head in acknowledgment. “She is a Senator and a Julii, Gustus,” she answers, nodding to a passing citizen when he drops to his knees at her approach. She gestures to a slave, who hands the man a silver coin as they pass. She can hear his exclamations of gratitude long after they are away. “She has always known her duty to the Empire.”

            They are walking down the Palantine Hill, taking a weaving path to the _thermae_ Lexa’s predecessors had built. Even though she has a private bathing complex in the _Domus Augustana_ , she has always loved going to the public baths – it gives her a chance to speak with her people, to hear their thoughts on politics and philosophy and daily life in Rome. It’s rare for her to get to have frank discussions with plebeians, but the baths have an equalizing factor that she cannot help but take advantage of. Besides, the people love her for it, and she draws her power from their adoration. She is a woman, and she will never please the powerful men of Rome who have seen their positions slowly fall in importance, first to the Emperors with the fall of the Republic, and now to women as Lexa elevates others to join her in power. With the people behind her, she is too popular to attack directly, forcing them to rely on more subtle methods of undermining her authority. She is not a politician, but she has learned much of subterfuge since gaining her throne.

            Gustus is looking at her shrewdly, his narrowed eyes containing a spark of something she can’t quite decipher. “An heir for Rome, then,” is all he says, and she makes the mistake of allowing herself to think the conversation is over. But then he adds, “With your succession settled, perhaps you can start to devote more time to your own personal happiness.”

            She starts, not expecting him to take this direction. She takes a deep breath. “I am quite happy, Gustus.” He narrows his eyes, and she knows he sees through her lie.

            “You have been quiet all morning, Lexa. I know that something is bothering you.” When she doesn’t answer, he sighs. “Perhaps you could start looking for a companion to share your life.”

            Lexa gives the burly man a fond look. Gustus has always been an insufferable matchmaker, but she bears it with good humor. His heart is in the right place. “Gustus, bless you for thinking of it,” she says, smirking slightly, “But I have quite enough company as it is.”

            He huffs, and it looks strange to see such a large man pouting like a youngster. “I am quite aware of the _company_ you keep, Alexandria.” She grins cheekily at him, and he makes a face. “But I was thinking along slightly different lines.” His face becomes gentle, along with his tone, and Lexa looks away uncomfortably, focusing on weaving her way through the crowds in the street making their way to the Forum. “You are lonely, little lioness. Don’t try to deny it – I have known you since you came roaring into this world, and I have served Emperors before. I know the signs. You need someone to share your burdens. An equal, someone you can confide in. A woman who is there for you, and not for Rome.”

            She does not know how to respond to that. “I do not know where I would find such a woman, Gustus.” She does not know if she wants to find such a woman. Her lifestyle now suits her perfectly well – there is no end of willing women to share her bed, and she does not need to devote more time or energy to them than is necessary to ensure a mutual enjoyment of their activities. She can rule her Empire without being distracted by emotion.

She thinks she might prefer that to the alternative Gustus is proposing. She cannot trust that any woman could understand both halves of who she is – could love both sides of her – at the same time. She is Empress before Lexa, but she is Lexa still. Understanding that eludes even her closest friends – even Gustus, who still sees her as his surrogate daughter, nine years old and missing her front teeth. He respects her position, she knows, but she does not think he truly _sees_ the Empress when he looks at her.

            “Really?” Gustus questions, interrupting her musings with a curious lift of his eyebrow. “You have many suitors, Lexa. I thought that surely one of them might be worth consideration.”

            Lexa cannot believe that she has let herself be led into this conversation. Shaking her head, she decides to take a detour to a favorite wine shop of hers, deciding that a bit of alcohol may help this talk go more smoothly. They are not on a schedule today, and she is at her leisure – a rare enough occurrence, and more than a good enough reason to celebrate. “There is no one appropriate,” she hedges, finding her usual small table in the corner and lifting a hand to the wineseller.

            Gustus refuses to drink at first, citing his unofficial role as bodyguard for the day, but she wheedles him into it by sending a slave back up to the palace for Octavia. As they wait for the wine they ordered to be brought to them, Gustus leans over the table, regarding her seriously. His brow is furrowed, and he looks as if he’s debating over saying the words on the tip of his tongue. She waits. “Lexa, you are not interested in the Junia woman, are you? My guards have reported seeing her enter your chambers twice this week. Both times, she did not leave until morning.” His frown tells her that he understands the implications of the timing.

            She bites her lip. She should have known that Gustus would find out that she’d allowed Costia to spend the night. It wasn’t regular, by any means, but she had spent three nights of the past eight lying beside the Junia woman. She has not given any thought to what it might mean. She does not want to think about what it might mean. “No,” she reassures him, and at his continued worried look, she begins to lose her temper. “She cannot be trusted, Gustus, I know. Everyone insists on repeating that, as if I would forget that her father is the primary reason I sit on my throne. As if I would forget the man who assassinated my benefactor. Do not worry. I am not in love with Costia au Junia. It is merely physical between us.”

            It is not the entire truth, she knows. There is no other woman who she has ever allowed to stay. Even now, there is no other. But she does not love Costia, and she does not think that she ever will. She hasn’t thought beyond that.

            He raises his hands in a placating manner, palms up and spread apart. “We only want what is best for you, little lioness. It is sometimes hard to see past feelings when they grow too large. I am glad to hear that you have no such difficulties.” Lexa stares him down for a moment longer, then nods, somewhat mollified. He isn’t finished. “Is there someone inappropriate?”

            Her vision clouds with blonde, flowing hair and ocean blue eyes. She shakes her head, dislodging the image, and goes for a cocky grin. “Ah, plenty of those, my old friend.”

            She is saved from hearing his response by the arrival of the wine and plate of cheese, grapes, and a crusted loaf of rye bread. They eat and drink for a moment in silence, and Lexa can see the moment that Gustus decides to leave the topic alone. His expression shifts along with his body as he leans unconsciously to the left, searching for another. He chooses the same one again, though he doesn’t know it.

            “Whatever happened to that Amazon you were holding? The Skaikru queen?”

            Lexa replaces the cheese she had picked up without eating it, brushing her hands together to clean them. “Clarke,” she says, repressing a sigh. She hasn’t been able to stop thinking about the other woman since leaving her the day before. “She is going to work for me as a scribe and translator when she’s not with Nyko in the infirmary. She has agreed to the arrangement.”

            Her tone is flat, she knows, and Gustus confirms it with his next sentence. “I thought you would be happier about that,” he says hesitantly. “Her agreement to aid Rome will act as good insurance against any revenge her people might wish to take, and their land is a valuable buffer against the Kingdom of the Avars in the north, should they wish to test the might of your Empire.” Gustus is eating as he speaks, and she watches with something bordering on amazement as he clears the entire plate in moments. She cannot remember what it is to have an appetite. These days she eats only to sustain herself.

            “It is a good development,” she reassures him, trying not to sound as tired as she feels. She can still remember the way Clarke looked at her as Lexa was making her threats. As she was idly discussing throwing an entire people into the bloodbath of the fighting pits just to leverage one political ally, as if their lives were nothing to her. And why should they be? Clarke had been right – weeks ago, Lexa had ordered them all either slaughtered or brought to Rome. Clarke couldn’t have known how painful that decision had been for the young Empress. But painful or not, Lexa had still made it, and she still had to live with the consequences. She deserved every ounce of hatred that Clarke directed at her. “I am just… let us just say that the negotiation with Anya was far easier.   I am not proud of the way I convinced her.”

            Gustus makes a clicking sound, cradling his wine glass in one huge paw as he uses the other to gesture towards her. “Her people were attacking yours, Lexa. For weeks, the Skaikru attacked every Roman caravan attempting to travel on that part of the road, through what they claim as their territory. Roman settlements on either side, and yet to get from one to the other, good noble citizens had to risk their lives because the Skaikru decided to take vengeance on our people instead of our soldiers. You had to do something to stop it.”

            Lexa presses her lips together, as if to stop the guilt inside her from bubbling up and escaping through her words. She loses that battle. “I threatened to put her people in the fighting pits, Gustus. To send them to the _Colosseum_ , to be gladiators. I let her think that if she didn’t help me, I would make sure that her people spent every last day of their short lives fighting for one more day. It was monstrous.”

            Gustus sucks in a breath. He is quiet for a long time, and it only serves to make Lexa feel more guilty. “I am sure you had your reasons, little lioness. If she would not see reason any other way…”

            Lexa shrugs helplessly, frustrated. Her wine glass is empty, and she calls for another without a second thought. Perhaps they will go to the baths another day. Drinking the afternoon away suddenly seems like a promising idea. “I could not see one. The woman is a true leader, brave and selfless. She did not care for her own person or her future. A woman like that only responds when there are others to protect. I had to make her fear for them.” She feels her own self-loathing settle into the pit of her stomach as she says it. It sours the taste of the wine.

            Chocolate eyes bore into her, and she has the uncomfortable feeling that Gustus is seeing more of her than she wants him to in this moment. “No one appropriate, lioness?” He murmurs, and Lexa feels the heat rising in her cheeks.

            “You speak nonsense, Gustus,” she mumbles into her wine, and pretends not to hear his rumble of laughter in response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Colosseum – the Roman stadium used to house gladiator fights  
> Thermae - a heated bathing complex – usually a large imperial bathing complex  
> Palantine Hill – the central of the Seven Hills of Rome, where the imperial palace was  
> Domus Augustana – the residence of the Emperor that Augustus built – it’s where Lexa lives in this story


	7. VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is un-beta'd and kind of rushed - I'm going on vacation tomorrow and wanted to get it posted first! It's kind of a filler chapter, but leading up to some Clexa stuff and some plot building. Raven, Clarke, and Lexa/Alexandria POVs. Enjoy!

Raven hisses in pain as she tries again to point her toes, gritting her teeth as she wills the muscles in her leg to elongate. Wooden splints bound to her thigh and calf with thick, sturdy cloth impede her movement, and she mumbles profanities in Trigedasleng as the huge Roman healer urges her on. “Come on, Amazon,” he cheers, his tone more like a proud father watching his newborn child take his first steps than a healer watching a stranger try to get her feet a hair’s breadth closer to the ground.

Raven wants to punch him, but Clarke has commanded her to participate and she is standing next to the burly man, looking on. “ _Jok yu_ ,” Raven settles for cursing him, but the pain is increasing and she can only gasp out the words before she is collapsing back down on the infirmary bed, her elbows slipping out from where they’d been propped up beneath her. She raises her hand to her forehead, wiping sweat from her brow and panting. The _branwada_ healer is actually _smiling_ at her. She grits her teeth against the urge to lash out at the man and at Clarke, who is suppressing a similar smile at his side. It may be painful, but this therapy is helping. She couldn’t move the leg at all a week ago, and now she can bend her foot about three fingers’ breadth forward from straight up and down. It is not much, but it is progress, and honestly, any movement is a relief right now.

“We are done for the day,” the big healer tells her, still smiling, but Raven looks to her Queen for confirmation instead.

Clarke nods, her braided blonde hair falling into her face at the action. “ _Em pleni_ ,” she confirms, and Raven lets herself relax against the mattress, chest heaving. They have been working for the better part of the morning, and the throbbing in her leg has only intensified as the day has worn on. The big healer – Nyko, she knows he is called – excuses himself and moves away toward one of the other beds, towards one of her few sisters remaining in the infirmary. Most of her sisters have been deemed well enough to begin work in the palace and have moved into the slave’s quarters. She knows from conversations with Clarke that they are being treated well enough, given jobs in the kitchens or cleaning the palace. They are not allowed near the training grounds and are closely watched by the household guard, but at least they are fed and not mistreated.

Clarke is leaning over her now, blue eyes swimming with concern, and Raven consciously slows her breathing, not wanting to give her friend and Queen anything else to worry about. “How are you doing?” Clarke asks, reaching out her hand and tenderly feeling along the healing ridges of bone in Raven’s leg. “How is the pain?”

Raven tries for levity. “Well, aside from the fact that I feel like the damned horse is still on me, it’s not so bad,” she answers with a shrug. From the look on Clarke’s face, she can see it isn’t working. She sighs. “Still bad, my Queen.”

“Hush,” the blonde answers with a warning look, and Raven frowns apologetically. She knows that the Empress knows of Clarke’s identity, but apparently her Queen still does not wish for the information to be public. “Try to rest,” she is saying, her voice quiet. “Your therapy is going well, but it will leave you exhausted. Eat well, and rest well, and heal.” She lowers her voice, glancing down the aisle to where the big man is hovering over another Amazon, gently unwrapping bandages from the woman’s head. “We won’t be here forever, Raven. I need you healthy when the time comes for us to leave.”

The brunette warrior takes a deep breath, firming her resolve. She has never felt so helpless as she has these past few weeks, lying immobile on an infirmary bed, surrounded by her captors. She resolves, as she does every day, to put all of her energy into healing so that she can fight for her Queen and her people when she is needed again. And so that she can find the centurion who did this to her and spear her through the heart. She nods, and Clarke seems to take it as agreement, the worry in her eyes receding a little.

“And you, my… friend?” Raven catches herself before she utters the honorific again, and a quick spark of amusement flares and then dies in Clarke’s eyes. “Are you well? You seem to be adapting to your new… duties… easily enough.” She tries to keep the accusation from her voice, but she knows that some is seeping through. She understands why Clarke is being so cooperative with the Roman healer, why she is helping him so meekly – she understands that Clarke is biding her time. But it is still galling to see her friend and Queen meekly taking orders from some spineless Roman.

Clarke narrows her eyes, and Raven wonders if she has been thinking too loudly. “I do what I must,” Clarke answers, her tone clearly indicating that there will be no more discussion on this topic.

Raven simply nods, properly chastised. They sit in silence for a moment, unable to have much of a conversation with the big Roman healer so close by. Raven decides to ask after the others again, but before she can say anything, the healer is returning. “Clarke, please fetch some stew for my midday meal from the kitchen. Get yourself some while you’re at it. Wells will escort you.”

Raven is gratified to see the muscles in her friend’s jaw clench at the order. Perhaps Clarke hasn’t lost her fire just yet. But she looks at Raven with a farewell in her eyes and turns to go, a small legionnaire detaching himself from the wall and following her out.

Nyko moves away again, and Raven watches him go, promising herself that she _will_ heal, and once she does, that man will never command her Queen again.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Clarke follows the young legionnaire down the corridor, secretly relieved to have been summoned away from her conversation with Raven. As much as she has appreciated that she can be at the other woman’s side during her recovery, there is too much unsaid between them for their interaction to be entirely comfortable.

She has not told Raven that the centurion they call Octavia is in the palace. She has not told her that she has seen Octavia, fought with the woman who killed her mother and crushed Raven’s leg. She knows how Raven would react – she wouldn’t be surprised if the wounded Amazon killed half the infirmary while she was dragging her way to the throne room to confront her enemy. Raven is too weak to attempt any sort of revenge at this point, but Clarke knows the knowledge would not stop her. Clarke is taking a risk by not telling her friend, but she will not see Raven injured, or worse, killed, by trying to take her revenge before she is fully healed.

Besides, she needs Raven to help them get out of here. She is not stupid – she can see the doubt in her friend’s eyes, can see her questioning whether Clarke is the right choice to succeed her mother, and despite how incredibly insecure that makes her feel, she knows that Raven is right. She is no warrior – at least not a great warrior like Raven was before her fall, and she is barely an Amazon at all by the estimation of some in her tribe. She will need someone strong and respected to stand with her in order to keep her throne. As Abby’s loyal right hand and Clarke’s best friend, Raven is the logical choice.

Which is also why Clarke hasn’t told the other woman about working for the Empress. Raven isn’t stupid – she knows that Clarke is cooperating with the Romans because she’d be dead or imprisoned if she refused. But Raven doesn’t know to what extent, and even if Clarke is just trying to do what is best for her people, she doesn’t think that Raven will understand. She tells herself that the opportunity hasn’t arisen, that she is watched too carefully to both convey and explain this information. It’s true, but it’s also an excuse.

“You finding your way around alright?” The blonde starts at the sound of the voice, turning her head to see the young legionnaire looking at her curiously. He is smaller than most of the others she has seen, with an open, friendly face and a genuine smile. She mistrusts him immediately. So she only nods in answer to his question, hoping it will discourage him from trying to speak to her further.

It doesn’t. He merely shrugs and tries again. “My mother was an Amazon, you know.” This gets her attention, and she turns to him, their steps drawing to a slow halt in the hallway. She doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t seem like he needs prompting.

“Is, maybe. I haven’t seen her since I was a boy. As a male child, they sent me to live with my father, who was a Roman legionnaire. So that’s what I became.” He seems done, and Clarke is about to open her mouth to reply when he adds, “But I remember it, in the village. With my mom. A little, anyway. So I understand what you’re feeling, trapped here. A little. If I can do anything to make it easier…” He trails off, unsure, and suddenly she feels off-balance, torn between trying to find a way to make use of his offer and feeling suspicion at the speed of his offer.

“ _Muchof_ ,” she mutters, and the legionnaire simply nods, starting to walk forward again. They reach the kitchens a moment later, and the legionnaire waits outside while Clarke moves forward in search of the stew.

She has been in the kitchens twice before, but she still finds herself shrinking back at the sheer _heat_ of the place, the air blistering from the fires burning in several clay ovens lining the back wall. For such an enormous palace, the kitchen is a small affair – Clarke thinks bitterly that the Romans must not have spared much thought for the comfort of the slaves who would be spending much of their time here. She threads her way through until she finds the blonde girl who helped her the previous time she was here.

“Niylah,” she greets, allowing herself a hint of a smile as the other woman comes around the counter towards her, arms full of freshly baked bread. Niylah is slender but strong, her muscles developed by long days of picking up and carrying food and water and wine for the nobles in the palace, stoking the charcoal in the ovens and mixing and chopping. She is scarred down the lengths of both arms, old evidence of healed burns, and her face has a long scar down the side, which Clarke assumes is old evidence of a harsh master. Even so, she is pretty, with her dirty blonde hair pulled back and sweat dripping down the side of her head from the heat.

When she sees Clarke, the kitchen slave grins and places the bread on the counter, stretching out her arms to give Clarke a quick, friendly hug. It is like being enveloped by a furnace, but Clarke’s smile widens anyway. She hasn’t interacted much with Niylah, but the other slave has only been open with her, and Clarke likes having someone besides a Roman to talk to. Particularly someone like Niylah, who has no reason to love the Romans herself.

“Well, well,” Niylah says, leaning sideways against the counter and crossing her arms. “If it isn’t the great Amazon warrior, come back to see me. How have you been, sweet thing?”

Hearing herself referred to as sweet makes Clarke snort and shake her head, but she can feel her cheeks start to warm anyway. She tells herself it’s from the heat of the kitchen. “In the three days since you saw me last?” She responds, rolling her eyes. “I’ve managed. And you?”

Niylah looks thrilled to have the question turned around on her. “You’ve been counting the days, have you?” She teases, and at Clarke’s exasperated look, gestures around her. “Who could complain? Plenty of work, plenty of food and I won’t say a fair wage, but a wage nonetheless. And plenty of pretty girls stopping by to keep me company.” This last she adds with a wink, and Clarke is forced to admit that it’s not just the heat of the kitchen when her neck starts to flush as well.

She decides to play along. “Well, if I’m just one of many, you won’t mind if I just take my meal and go?” Niylah’s grin falters for a moment, and Clarke knows she has won.

She is not truly interested in the other woman, not beyond the moment, at least. Clarke and her _kru_ will only be here for a short amount of time, after all. Still, she has little enough in the way of social interaction these days – she sees mostly Nyko and the unfriendly faces of the Roman soldiers set to guard her. In the infirmary, some of those are still healing from broken bones that she gave them. Not a friendly company, all in all, and not one that she has any particular desire to become friendly with. Niylah is another slave, and that means she gets a little more trust automatically. Besides, it can only help Clarke and her people to have connections inside the palace when they need to escape.

The kitchen slave smiles, and Clarke marvels at how happy she can still look despite her situation. “I suppose I would, after all,” she says. “But that’s probably what you should do nonetheless. Nyko is a gentle man, but a hungry one.”

Clarke’s mood sours a bit at the reminder that she is not just fetching food for herself, but for her supervisor. She supposes he isn’t really her master now, not since the Empress claimed her. She hasn’t been summoned by the woman yet, hasn’t even seen her since that day in the prison almost three weeks ago, but she still feels the weight of her deal with the woman pressing heavy on her shoulders. She nods at Niylah and the woman moves to get the stew poured into bowls and set on a platter for Clarke to take up. “Until next time, Amazon,” she says, still smiling, and Clarke nods again before moving away from the kitchen.

The legionnaire is there to meet her when she exits the room, and they begin their journey back to the infirmary. They walk in silence for the most part, Clarke focusing on not spilling the hot stew on herself, but just before they reach the door, Clarke stops. Confusion flickering across his face, the legionnaire stops with her. Without quite knowing why, Clarke asks, “What is your name?”

He looks even more confused by the question, but answers. “Wells.”

She nods. “Thank you, again, Wells. For telling me about your mother, and for your… offer, earlier. It is noted.” She knows it was the right thing to say when he smiles back at her, pleased and embarrassed at the same time. She is almost back into the infirmary before she hears his answering whisper.

“ _Pro_.”

 

\-------------------------------------

 

Lexa is seated on her throne, Indra and Titus flanking her. She has received word that the messengers she sent to Boudica are returning and is awaiting their arrival. She is worried. Something feels off about the scout’s report. Perhaps it is the speed of their return – it has been scarcely a month since she sent them, which is hardly enough time for travel both ways and a full negotiation between them. Perhaps it is that the scout could not identify any of the men in the Iceni party. Have they kept her men as hostages? For leverage? Have they killed them?

She shifts at a sound from the door to the hall, but it is Clarke entering the room, escorted by a young legionnaire. She is no longer wearing the rough brown garb of a servant, but is instead attired at Lexa’s insistence in a good cream colored toga and a dyed blue tunic, the color almost matching her eyes. In a nod to her Amazonian roots, she has also been given a pair of close-fitting cream trousers. It is an unusual look, but Lexa thinks it suits her.

She called for Clarke as soon as she heard the news about the Iceni party. This will be a good opportunity for her to test their new arrangement and Clarke’s translation skills in the bargain. She has not seen the other woman since their conversation in Clarke’s cell three weeks ago. Guilt flares up in her at the memory, choking her, and she shoves it back down, making sure to keep her face blank. She must do what is best for Rome and her people, always. Even if she wishes the woman in front of her were not an enemy, she cannot forget who they are, to their people and to each other. Both leaders, both fighters, and one must be the conqueror. Lexa cannot afford for it not to be her.

“Clarke of the Skaikru,” she greets, hearing her own steady tone with relief. “Thank you for joining us.”

Clarke does not kneel or bow. “You commanded my presence,” she answers evenly, and Lexa sighs inwardly at the amount of steel still in her voice. So this is how it is to be.

 ****Lexa ignores the jab, deciding instead to question Clarke about her work with Nyko. “You continue to work in the infirmary despite my releasing you to diplomatic duties. You are aware, I presume, that this is not required. Why have you chosen to stay?”

The blonde’s nostrils flare and she clenches her jaw as she looks up at Lexa, who is suddenly glad she does not have Octavia guarding her today. Clarke will have to get used to Lexa’s newest Praetorian at some point, but seeing how short her temper is already has Lexa certain she made the right decision.

“Did you summon me here just to question me about my work ethic?” Lexa does not reply to the question, instead leveling Clarke with a stern gaze. The blonde sighs, her expression making it clear that she would rather be anywhere else. “You haven’t needed me for anything else. I have to keep myself busy somehow, and this allows me to supervise the recovery of my people, who, you may remember, were attacked by _your_ soldiers. Am I not allowed to work there anymore?”

Lexa shakes her head, annoyed that the conversation has turned so quickly. The Amazon is so _obstinate_ , determined to make the interaction difficult. She supposes she has earned the woman’s displeasure, earned it ten times over, but knowing a thing does not make enduring the results any more pleasant. She tries to keep the irritation out of her voice when she replies, lifting her head in an effort to seem more Imperial. She needs to get out of this – whatever it is – this mind frame that she slips into when she’s around the blonde woman. They’ve had three conversations now, and each one leaves Lexa muddled and distracted. She has more important things to think about than why that is.

“You may do anything you like during your free time, Clarke,” she says, wincing internally as she hears the bite that she puts on the last consonant of the woman’s name, a tell-tale sign of her displeasure. “You are not a slave.”

The Amazon laughs, a bitter, sharp sound that slices through Lexa as sure as any blade. “I’ll just take a stroll around the town, then, shall I? Perhaps the province? Maybe make my way back to the ancestral lands you so recently dragged me from?” Lexa does scowl at this, and Clarke scowls right back at her. “Do not say what you do not mean, _Empress_ ,” Clarke hisses, fury dancing behind her cerulean eyes. “I know what I am to you.”

The words strike Lexa almost physically, and she cannot place the sudden hurt she feels at them. Why does it matter to her what this woman – this servant – thinks of her? She has no personal stake in the Amazon’s well-being or happiness, other than ensure that the blonde does not rally her people and do harm to Rome. This arrangement is solely so that she can keep an eye on the woman and limit her contact with would-be supporters if the Amazons do start to entertain ideas of rebelling. There is no need for them to be on good terms. Clarke is right; she is nothing to Lexa, less than nothing. Another servant for Rome. Perhaps a useful tool in administrative duties. A pretty face. Nothing more.

She sits back in her throne, feeling more solid now. She feels the mask slip into place, holds on to the comfort of hiding behind the Empress. The Empress is iron. The Empress does not care for the conversation of servants. “I did not bring you here to exchange pleasantries,” she says, ignoring the incredulous snort from the woman before her. “You are here to perform a duty for me. Any moment now, a delegation from the Iceni tribe of the Roman provinces in Brittania will be here to bring me an answer to an alliance proposal. I need you to translate their words now, and transcribe them later so that I may remember the terms of any agreement we come to in detail.”

Clarke does not respond. Instead, she merely dips her body at the waist, a mockery of a bow. They stand in silence for several minutes until there is a rap at the door, announcing the arrival of the Iceni delegation.

 

\---------------------------

 

The men who enter are clearly warriors, huge brutes covered in linen _leines_ \- a garb similar to a tunic – with cloaks fastened at the shoulders and empty scabbards hanging at their waists. Their hair is a riot of color, nearly every shade of orange and red Alexandria has ever seen, and their bare legs are bulging with strong muscles. One man in particular walks in front of them, stopping close enough to Alexandria’s throne that Titus is stepping forward to push him back before stopping at Alexandria’s raised hand. The two men directly behind are carrying a large box between them, heavy enough that the strain of their burden shows in their creased brows.

“Well come, my friends,” the Empress greets them, her sharp eyes scanning the room and confirming the scout’s report that none of her own men are among the party. “I trust that your travel was not too taxing. You arrived more quickly than was expected.”

Their leader, the big man out front, does not answer immediately. Up close, Alexandria can see that his arms, which are nearly as large as the columns supporting the roof, are tattooed with blue ink swirling down their length. Not just a warrior, then, but a battle-tested one. There is a silence for a moment, and Alexandria looks sharply at Clarke, then back to the Iceni. The Amazon starts, then begins to translate the Empress’s words. Alexandria is gratified to hear that Clarke is translating them verbatim, not paraphrasing or leaving out words.

The big man listens in silence, then spits out a response. Alexandria listens patiently, then turns to Clarke as if she is awaiting a response. She needs to know that the Amazon can be trusted with these duties, and it’s best to start with a language that Alexandria herself speaks so she will know if the translation is true. Still, best not to let Clarke in on this particular secret. So she waits patiently as Clarke tells her what the man said. “He says is name is Cadell, Empress,” the Amazon tells her, “And his travel was well. He asks to speak plainly.”

Alexandria knows that the man was not quite so polite as Clarke is making him out to be, but she lets it go. She can tell from his tone and body language that this negotiation, if there is to be one, will not be easy. “Of course,” she answers, looking him directly in the eyes. “I sent your Queen a diplomatic delegation under a banner of peace,” she tells them evenly. “I offered her the friendship and the strong arm of Rome in avenging the wrongs done to her by Nia, Queen of the Visigoths. And yet I see none of my men here with you. Do you have an answer from your Queen?”

Clarke takes a long moment in translating this, but again, her words are exact. The man reacts to them with a wide, threatening grin that makes Lexa’s stomach clench. She forces Alexandria’s face to remain still and impassive as the Celt gestures behind him to the two men bearing the large box, who set it down with a thud between them. Grin widening, becoming even more feral, the big brute kicks the box open, standing proudly beside it. “A gift from my Queen, and her answer.”

Dread pooling in her gut, Alexandria leans forward to look into the box, registering Clarke’s translation even as she does so. The smell hits her first, and it takes every ounce of control she has not to reel away and vomit over the side of her throne. Inside the box are twenty heads, one from every man she sent to speak with Boudica. Their mouths are stretched open, gaping, as if they died screaming, and every one of them has scrapes and burn scars. They were tortured. Artigas’s head, barely recognizable, is on the top of the pile.

Desperation and rage well within her. She knew it was a possibility that her men would not return, but _this_ … Damn Boudica and her stubbornness, damn Nia for making an enemy for her, an enemy out of a woman she respects, and damn this man for _smiling_ at the deaths of her soldiers, of her subjects…

She becomes aware that he is yelling, something like “Vengeance for Boudica!” and is rushing her, and suddenly she is standing to greet the attack. Alexandria barely registers Clarke stepping forward out of the corner of her eye before the brunette ducks under the first blow and slams her fist into the man’s throat, sending him reeling back, gagging, and then Titus and Indra are there, weapons drawn, slicing through the unarmed Celts easily, shouting for the other guards. In seconds, the Celts are all dead or subdued, and Alexandria is shouting in rage to have them taken downstairs, to await crucifixion.

She is breathing heavily, her vision blurring, trying to sort out what just happened. There is a pain in her shoulder, but she raises her eyes instead to meet an ocean of blue looking at her with a guarded expression – contempt, as always, but something else, maybe… concern? And then the pain is worsening, and her arm feels wet, and Alexandria glances down to realize that she has been stabbed. The man must have gotten a blade in after all. She tries to step toward Clarke, toward the door, but the world tips out from under her and she finds herself sinking back down on the throne. The last thing she remembers is the flash of blonde hair hovering over her as the world goes dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My wife and I have a running thing in tv shows - any time we see a box, we're like, oh, don't open that, there's definitely a head in there. Shows you what kind of tv we watch, I guess, but I swear it's right at least 70% of the time. Couldn't resist throwing it in. :)
> 
> Glossary
> 
> Jok yu – fuck you  
> Branwada – child, or idiot  
> Em pleni – that’s enough  
> Muchof – thank you  
> Kru – tribe  
> Pro – you’re welcome


	8. VIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title pretty much says it all. A thousand apologies for how late this guy is - I have been super busy on the personal level, and finding the time to write this has been hard! My wife and I got married in a private courthouse ceremony back in June, but we had always been planning a big ceremony with family and friends and that's in two weeks!! So things have been crazy with all the preparations. I will do my best to get out another chapter before the wedding, but I don't know if it will be possible. I do have it mapped out, so it just needs writing.
> 
> Speaking of writing, this bear is unbeta'd and was re-written multiple times. I'm still not completely happy with it, but I think it says what I need it to say and if I don't stop editing it it will never get on here! So please be kind! Also, thanks for all your encouragement thus far, it's really amazing and the comments totally brighten my day. You guys rock!

Clarke watches in shock as the burly Celt steps towards the Empress, knife in hand. She takes a step forward of her own, involuntarily, not sure whether she’s reaching to stop the man or to help him, and then he’s through, the blade in his hand punching into the Empress’s shoulder as she strikes out at his throat. Green eyes float up to meet blue as the man stumbles backwards, and the Empress takes one lurching step towards Clarke before collapsing backwards.

The throne room is in chaos. The sounds of drawn steel and pained cries reach her ears faster than the stench of blood reaches her nose, and then Clarke is stepping to the side, avoiding the man who attacked the Empress as he spins away, wheezing. From the sound of his labored breathing, his windpipe is crushed, and Clarke spares no time for a man who will be dead in moments anyway.

Instead, without quite knowing why, she is moving toward the Empress, who has fallen back on her throne. Sweat is beading on her brow and those brilliant green eyes are half-lidded. Blood is pouring through the wound on her shoulder, and though she tries to jerk away when Clarke leans over to inspect it, there is no strength in the movement. The blonde frowns at how little the Empress seems to be moving, confused. She rips off the bottom of her tunic, pushing the other woman’s toga away to get a better look. She cleans around the wound with a portion of the ripped fabric, and frowns again when she gets closer. Leaning forward, she sniffs at the wound, her eyes widening in realization.

The Empress has been poisoned. The Empress is dying.

Clarke presses another wad of fabric to the wound and then wraps the remainder of the strip around it, binding it tight to stop the flow of blood. Then she’s on her feet, lurching back to where the big Celt – Cadell – is lying on the throne room floor, twitching now, his face purple from the lack of oxygen. Clarke searches over his body for the knife, finding it still clutched in his fist. She snatches it up and sniffs the blade, the unpleasant scent confirming her suspicion.

She looks at the man on the floor, considers ending his suffering, and then decides that she doesn’t have time. She has nothing but contempt for such a man, who poisons instead of fights, who violates an offer of peace with an attempted murder instead. He deserves neither her pity nor her kindness.

She whirls away back to the Empress, still clutching the knife. She will have to get the Empress to the infirmary quickly to clean the wound. Nyko will have frankincense in his stock, and if she can get to it fast enough she might be able to save her still.

She ignores the voices in her head, questioning, screaming at her to just let the woman slumped on the throne die. She is acting on instinct now, and something inside her knows that she has to save her enemy. That this is the right thing to do.

Clarkes reaches the Empress and is leaning over her again, beginning to scoop her up. The woman’s eyes are closed completely now, and her tanned skin has begun to leach some color, making her look frail and helpless.   Clarke should be reveling at the sight of an enemy laid low, but instead the look makes her lungs contract and her heart race with panic.  

Shaking hands have just secured their hold on the Empress, beginning to lift her up, when the other woman is ripped away and Clarke is thrown back bodily, landing on the floor.

The brunette centurion – Octavia – is on top of her, snarling down. “Don’t you touch her,” she growls as Clarke struggles in her grasp. She realizes she’s still holding the knife and is half-tempted to plunge it into Octavia’s side, to take this opportunity to seek revenge for her mother’s death and Raven’s crippling whatever way she can, but finds the knife wrested away by another centurion, this one muscular and stern.

“I’m trying to help her, _branwada_ ,” she spits, seeing the other woman stiffen at the insult. “She’s been poisoned, she needs to see a healer immediately. I’m a _healer_ , or did you forget?”

The brunette is shaking her head, not lifting off of Clarke. “You’re our enemy. Why would you want to help her? You had a knife – “            

“The blade is poisoned! That Celt –“ she wriggles, trying to point to Cadell, who has slackened and is quiet, his fight finally over. “He poisoned his blade and stabbed her, and every minute you keep me here has her one step closer to death!”

Octavia does not look convinced, but the other centurion, the strong one, is lifting her up by the arm. “Look at the Empress, Octavia,” he is saying, pointing at the woman still slumped on her throne. “She doesn’t look good. This Amazon could be telling the truth.” When Octavia wavers, he presses the point. “We need to get her to a healer anyway. We can go together.”

Octavia narrows her eyes and looks down at the Amazon, and then Clarke is being hauled onto her feet while Lincoln races to the Empress, picking her up as if she weighs nothing. Then they are running, past Titus and Indra still rounding up the Celts and out of the throne room, running to get the Empress to Nyko and her only hope of survival.

Nyko is not in the infirmary when they arrive, and Clarke takes charge under Octavia’s scowling gaze. They send one of the other slaves to fetch him and then the other centurion, who has introduced himself as Lincoln, is laying the Empress down on the table. Clarke spares no thought for the woman’s modesty and is ripping off her tunic to reach the wound, leaving the Empress bare from the waist up.

Lincoln blushes and turns to face the wall, and Clarke notes with curiosity that Octavia’s glare briefly shifts from her to Lincoln at the gesture. Having no further time to think of it, she turns to one of the other healers and starts barking out a list of herbs to aid in withdrawing the poison as she undoes her makeshift bandage. Then she is cleaning the wound – first with boiled water and then with the strong wine the Romans drink on festival days.

A servant runs back over with the herbs she requested, and Clarke works quickly, humming to herself as she crushes them and tuning out the anxiety of the centurions standing behind her. She becomes aware of other people entering the room, but does not turn to look. She is wholly focused on the woman in front of her.

In sleep, the Empress looks more peaceful than Clarke has ever seen her, though there’s something about the strong lines of her jaw and the firm, sculpted muscles of her body that makes the Amazon think that this woman will never be entirely at peace. Her eyelids are flickering as her eyes move behind them, and her lips are parted slightly, her breath coming in shallow gasps. She is impossibly beautiful, even while dying.

Clarke does not want to admit it, but she does not think she can bear the thought of never seeing those eyes open again.

She works diligently, and the song she is humming changes to another, and then another, as she grinds the herbs small enough to mix into a paste with water and sap from the plants. She cleans the wound again, checking to make sure the bleeding has finally slowed, and then gently rubs the paste into it. The Empress flinches, hissing through her teeth at the pain, almost coming awake. It is a good sign that she can feel it, that she can react to it, and Clarke feels relief sweep over her at the movement.

When she is finished, she stands, turning to wash her hands in a clean basin of water. She is surprised to find Nyko standing behind her, with the tall man they call Gustus, the head of the Empress’s household guard. Octavia and Lincoln are no longer in the room, apparently having been dismissed by one or the other of the two men upon their entry.

There is silence for a moment, and then Clarke asks, “Why didn’t you stop me?” She is looking at Nyko as she says it, wondering why the Empress’s head healer did not intervene and finish her treatment himself.

Nyko rubs his beard absentmindedly. “You were doing everything I would have done, and just as quickly. Didn’t seem like you needed the help, and I didn’t want to interrupt your work.” He says it as if this is an every day thing, allowing an Amazon to treat the Empress of Rome in a life or death situation.   As if there is nothing remarkable about trusting a slave and an enemy warrior to treat the most powerful woman in the world.

Beside him, Gustus is studying her carefully, his arms crossed. He is a huge beast of a man, and Clarke just stands there gaping at him and Nyko for several long moments before clearing her throat. “Well, there’s nothing more I can do here,” says the blonde, looking towards the door.   “I’m going to go and rest for a while. I will be back in two hours to check on her, unless…?”

Neither man responds to the question, and she nods. “Two hours, then.” She slips around them and out the door, and is almost to the stairs leading to the floor that her quarters are on when she hears her name called out in an unfamiliar voice.

“Clarke of the Skaikru!” She turns, and is baffled to see Gustus hurrying after her. She has never spoken to him before, cannot imagine what he might want with her now. Is he here to ask about the Empress’s treatment? About the scene in the throne room? As the head of the Empress’s household guard, perhaps he is here to ask how the Celts were able to get the weapon past his guards and the Praetorians.

But he surprises her by stopping only a few feet away and extending his arm to her, patting her hand gently when she raises it to meet his. “Thank you, Clarke of the Skaikru. I owe you a great debt for today.” She can see the sincerity in his warm brown eyes, can hear it in his tone. The thanks is heartfelt, and she realizes with shock that the Empress is not just his employer – she holds meaning for him.

She nods her acceptance. “I am a healer. I was only doing my duty.”

Something sparks behind his eyes, and his lips press together in a lightning quick movement, as if he is suppressing a smile. “And what duty is owed to one’s captor?” She shifts in discomfort, and he continues. “I believe you are a rare person, Clarke of the Skaikru. I hope to see more of you in the future. And regardless of your motivation, you have my thanks. Alexandria is very important to me, and you saved her life today.”

He releases her hand and walks away, leaving Clarke to wonder yet again why she saved the woman she should have killed.

 

\------------------------------

 

She hears the voices first, low rumblings and murmurs and hushed, harsh whispers. The next thing she notices is the touch, gentle and cool on her arm, her shoulder, and then her forehead, brushing her sweat-soaked hair away from her face. She is burning, melting, baking – she is hot, so hot and she tries to open her eyes, to see what is burning her, but they are too heavy. She lets the weight drag her back down.

The next time Lexa wakes, the soft, gentle voice is gone and so is the touch, replaced instead by a gruff male voice urging her to wake and holding a bowl of water to her lips. Slowly she opens her eyes and tries to lift her head to sip the water. She slurps gracelessly, and Nyko pulls the bowl away before she is quite finished, the water dribbling down her chin and throat. He does not seem to see her embarrassment; only takes a clean cloth from beside the bed and begins to wipe her chin clean. “You cannot have too much at first, Empress,” he explains, answering her mortified glare. “Your stomach will reject it. You have not eaten or had much water since yesterday morning.”

Yesterday morning? So she has been unconscious for more than a day. Lexa tries to sit up completely this time, but finds she can barely move her body. Nyko shushes her, pressing her back down to the cot she is on with a gentle but firm hand on her uninjured arm. She realizes she is no longer wearing a toga, but has been stripped and changed and is now wearing a simple sleeveless cotton shift. Then Nyko is leaning over her, peeling her eyelids back, looking in her eyes one after the other. Apparently satisfied, he drops the lids and then presses a hand against her forehead, measuring her temperature. “Do you remember where you are, Empress?” He asks, and when she answers in the affirmative, follows up with, “And do you remember who I am?”

“Nyko,” she rasps, and is surprised to hear how hoarse her voice has become. Of course, she’s been here for over a day. “The Celts. Where are they being held?”

The question gives him pause. He strokes his beard in consternation. “Most are dead, Empress, including their leader. They fought like tigers. I believe there are one or two being held in the lower cells. Do you remember what happened?”

She tries to nod, but finds it makes her dizzy. Her head starts pulsing, and she becomes suddenly aware of the pain in her shoulder. It feels like the blade is still in her skin, but when she tries to turn and look, she sees nothing. She forces herself to focus on the question, to speak around the aching in her throat. “They killed my men. Artigas. One stabbed me – I think I hit him. Clarke – “ She stutters to a halt, remembering. Clarke was there. Clarke stepped forward. To defend her, or to help kill her? She does not remember the Amazon doing anything after taking that first step.

“Aye,” Nyko is saying, busying himself with checking the bandages around her wound. “Saved your life, that one. The one who attacked you died within minutes. You crushed his windpipe, but not before he gave you that wound. The blade was poisoned. But the Amazon –“

Lexa cuts him off. “ _Clarke_ saved me? How?” Her voice is growing stronger now, fueled by the water and her incredulity. She frowns. “I don’t remember her fighting.” Why would Clarke fight for her?

Nyko clicks his tongue, and his face sets with disapproval. “Not all battles are fought with sword and spear, Empress,” he answers. She raises her eyebrows in a silent command, he sighs and surrenders the moral high ground in favor of telling the story. “You were stabbed in the shoulder with a poisoned blade. It’s a fast-acting brew, a truly foul blend of venom and herbs. You would have died long before I could have reached you, if Clarke hadn’t intervened. She smelled the poison and convinced your Praetorians to let her treat you. She acted quickly, stopping the bleeding and mixing together an antidote before the poison could fully set in. You’d be dead if not for her.” His tone carries something beneath it, almost like a reprimand. A reminder, maybe, to treat the Amazon well in reward for her service. As if Lexa would treat her poorly otherwise. Interesting. Lexa has known Nyko for a long time, and though the man is built like a Minotaur, he is not often protective of healers under his supervision. That’s part of why Indra put him in charge down here – his demanding attitude makes for good healers.

She needs to see Clarke. She needs to look into the eyes of the other woman and demand her reasons for helping her. Lexa killed her mother, enslaved her people, and put Clarke herself in chains. She knows the necessity of it all, but she also knows that Clarke will never forgive her for it. Why, then, did she help her? She would have only had to do nothing for Lexa to be dead. Why did she act?

She wants to ask for the Amazon, to have her brought to the infirmary so they can talk, but she has duties to attend to. “Nyko, would you please have someone find Marcus for me? I need to speak with him. And perhaps have someone bring me something to eat?”

Nyko sighs and spreads his palms wide, shrugging his shoulders. “Broth only, for now,” he orders, and goes to tell a servant to fetch her Co-Consul. Lexa attempts to adjust herself into a more regal position while she waits, smoothing her hair with her good hand and splashing some water on her face from a basin next to the bowl. She wishes she didn’t have to stay in this infirmary, displaying her weakness so prominently, but she knows she doesn’t have the strength to move.

When Marcus arrives, his face wrought with concern for her well-being, she launches right into her plan for Aden’s adoption. She has let Anya put this off for too long, but today’s episode has reminded her that she needs an heir, and sooner rather than later. They speak for several minutes, discussing the details of the ceremony, and then move on to plans for Marcus to meet an incoming delegation from Egypt in Lexa’s stead while she recovers. They sort out the excuses Marcus will make on her behalf, and the need to keep the altercation in the throne room as quiet as possible. She is dismayed to hear that probably half of the palace saw Lincoln carrying her unconscious body through the halls; they will have to settle for minimizing the attack instead of concealing it.

Lexa has never been more grateful for Marcus’s inherent kindness when, a few moments later, he notices her fatigue start to set in and excuses himself, letting her know he has another appointment to keep.   She doubts that he does – certainly, if she requires his presence there is nothing that can be more important than attending her – but she is appreciative of the lie. With a soft smile and a wish for her quick recovery, he leaves her.

Lexa does not even have the strength to be annoyed that the food has not yet arrived as she sinks back onto the cot. Extra blankets have been brought and piled around her, and her eyes flutter closed as she settles back into the softness, letting sleep overtake her again.

\----------------------------

 

Titus steps from the cell as the guard closes the thick wooden door behind him, latching a heavy metal clasp. His hands are covered in blood and he accepts the towel that Indra hands him without comment, wiping them clean before handing the cloth off to a guard.

“Well?” she demands, irritated at his silence. “What did you find out?”

He shakes his head slightly, looking down. “Nothing. They are telling the same story. That Boudica had the men killed. That she sent them here for revenge on the Empress and on Rome. That they did not believe they would be able to best her in battle, so they chose the poison as a way to hedge the bets.”

She lets out a frustrated huff, and he angles his head at her, eye flickering with curiosity. “What are you looking for, Indra?”

She wishes she knew. Something about this situation does not sit well with her, does not feel quite right. She has heard that Boudica is an honorable woman, a strong leader and warrior. She does not believe such a woman would order her subordinates to attack while under a peace banner. She does not believe that Boudica would order them to use poison, a coward’s weapon. Perhaps the woman has gone mad with the grief over what was done to her, to her daughters. Perhaps she has decided to put aside her principles in favor of vengeance.

Indra supposes that it could be true, but she still feels as if she is missing something. She huffs out a sigh, not answering his question, and tells the guard to withhold the prisoners’ meals until she tells him otherwise. She heads up the stairs from the prison, which is below the ground off to the far side of the palatial complex, and out into the sun.

She wants to go to the infirmary, to see Alexandria and measure her healing for herself, but she knows that the woman will not appreciate her interference. Instead, she seeks out the comfort of the stables. _Fortem_ is there, his great black leg pawing the ground in pleasure as he sees her. He leans his head out over the stall and she scratches his nose, cooing to the charger. She has always found solace in the simple company of beasts, and _Fortem_ ’s steady, constant presence soothes her more than anything. Here, she can forget her worries. Here, she can forget her guilt.

Minutes, maybe hours, pass as Indra stands leaning against _Fortem_ ’s stall, scratching his nose, before his whinny alerts her to the presence of someone else in the stables. She turns to look over her shoulder and is unsurprised to see Octavia au Aquilli standing there, an apple in her hand.

“Thought I’d find you here,” Indra’s young protégée says, brushing past her mentor to offer the apple up to _Fortem_ , who takes delighted, messy chunks of it with each bite.

“And if I did not wish to be found, young Aquilli?” Indra does not mean her tone to be so harsh, but Octavia’s presence reminds her of yesterday’s attack, and the guilt comes seeping back in.

Octavia shrugs. “I have no doubt that you did not. Even so, I’m here. You know what happened yesterday wasn’t your fault, right? You weren’t the guard who checked those men. You couldn’t have reacted any more quickly than you did.”

Indra narrows her eyes at the young woman. “I do not need your absolution, child. I know my duty.” That she actually is feeling the guilt is of no consequence. She knows in her head that she did the best she could by her Empress, and she knows that it was not good enough. She will reconcile herself to that fact some other day.

The petite brunette nods, looking away, and Indra suddenly understands that while she may not need Octavia’s forgiveness, her student might be feeling the need for some herself. “It was not your fault, either, Octavia. You weren’t even in the room.”

Octavia looks up, embarrassment in her gaze. “No. I know. It’s just – I’ve barely been a Praetor for a month, and already I’ve let someone spit on the Empress, and then she almost gets killed, and then _I_ almost kill her faster by trying to restrain the woman trying to heal her. It’s just – that Amazon, how was I supposed to know she was _helping_ Alexandria? I ran in and it was such chaos, and then I see her standing over the Empress with a knife, and I just – I reacted without thinking. I could have been the reason she died.”

Breathing a deep sigh, Indra runs her hand through her close-cropped dark hair. “Yes,” she says to start, not missing the wounded look that flashes in Octavia’s gaze. “But you did what you thought was best at the time, with the information you had at the time. You acted to protect Alexandria from what you thought was a threat. Your motivation was right; there was simply a flaw in your execution.”

Octavia does not look comforted, and Indra inwardly winces. She has never been good with other people’s emotions, preferring to keep her own to herself. On the battlefield, too much emotion will get a woman killed, and Indra has become a master at controlling hers. She does not know what to say to make Octavia see.

“You are young, child. With age will come experience, and then perhaps you will see that sometimes the reasons behind your doing a thing are as important as the thing itself. You cannot always be right, but you can always try to be good. I know you, Octavia au Aquilli. You have a good heart, a strong heart. You care about Alexandria and you will give your life to protect her for the good of Rome. That is all that is required, and more. You will make an excellent Praetor.”

She is surprised to see moisture at the corner of Octavia’s eyes when the younger woman lifts her head. “Thank you, Indra,”she whispers, and Indra finds herself feeling uncomfortably warm. She clears her throat and nods, turning back to _Fortem_ , who has finished his apple and is now happily lipping at Octavia’s braided hair.

“Of course, child,” she says, then shifts her eyes to the side, finding the need to change the subject. “Now, tell me about this Lincoln I am seeing always at your side of late.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Branwada - Idiot, child  
> Fortem - Strength


	9. IX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lexa's starting to heal, but Clarke's not the only one interested in her progress. Or Costia, the world's biggest clam jam. Also, guys, this took more than a month to get up, and for that I am profoundly sorry. The good news: in that month, I had a wedding (woot!), a honeymoon, my first DragonCon, AND I mapped out basically this entire story. And now that my life is significantly more settled, I'm going to have more time to write which means that hopefully you guys won't be waiting for so long anymore! Thanks for sticking with it and for all your kind words!

The kitchen is less warm than it usually is, it being too late in the day for a casual lunch. Clarke spots Niylah immediately when she walks in, bent over a table and working with a slender knife to create a pattern in some sort of cream for the top of a small fruit cake. She watches the other woman work for a moment, drawn to the delicate, precise movements of her long fingers, but her worry for the Empress keeps her from becoming too enthralled and she steps forward, hand lifted in greeting.

Niylah clearly hadn’t seen her and she starts backwards, the knife slipping in her hand and slicing a shallow gash along her forefinger. She hisses in pain, dropping the knife and lifting the finger to her mouth, her gaze lifting to Clarke in a mixture of accusation and embarrassment.

“Sorry, sorry.” Clarke apologizes hurriedly as she moves to help her friend, lifting a bottle of wine and a clean towel from the table nearby. “Let me see.” She coaxes the hand away from Niylah’s mouth, missing the way the other woman’s breath hitches as Clarke’s fingers graze her lips.

She studies the wound carefully for a moment, then pours the wine over it without warning, causing Niylah to hiss again and attempt to jerk her wrist back. Clarke gives her a stern look and holds on tightly, pressing the towel to her finger. “It’s not deep,” the Amazon diagnoses, “But it will bleed for a while yet. I’m sorry for startling you.”

She’s looked up from the wound now, her blue eyes connecting with Niylah’s brown ones. They’re standing close together, bodies touching, faces so close they are sharing air. Niylah is standing stock-still, tense, looking as if she might startle away again at any sudden movement, and her eyes keep flickering from Clarke’s face to her mouth, lower to her breasts, and then back up to her mouth again. Clarke feels her body responding to the other woman’s obvious interest, wonders if she should just lean it and seal their lips together, take comfort in a quick, heated coupling here with this girl who is also a victim of Rome. But it has been two hours, and she needs to get back to the Empress. She cannot afford to waste time here, at least not right now.            

She pulls away, not without reluctance, and tries not to feel the pang of guilt that comes when disappointment flashes across Niylah’s face. “I came to get a meal of broth for the Empress,” she forces out, and Niylah nods, attempting to regain her composure.

“Nyko said someone would be by,” says the kitchen slave, turning to hustle over to a pot where it is warming in the oven. She pulls it out with a clean towel, abandoning the bloodied one in a pile of other dirty kitchen linens just outside the cooking area. Ladling some into a bowl with her uninjured hand, she looks up at Clarke, meeting her eyes again, and Clarke knows that the other woman has not given up just yet. “I’m glad it was you,” she adds, a shy smile growing on her face.

As she hands the bowl off to Clarke, the Amazon lets her hands linger for a moment, touching Niylah’s. Then she is off to the infirmary, to fulfill a promise to Nkyo and Gustus.

 

\----------------------------------

 

The music is back, though it seems far away. Lexa hears it as if through a thick cloth, muffled and faintly familiar, but she cannot recognize the tune. She struggles back from the darkness enveloping her, the battle for consciousness much harder than the ones she’s used to fighting. It takes time, time during which the music changes, becomes quieter and softer somehow, and then stops altogether as Lexa’s eyes blink open.

There is silence for several moments as Lexa struggles to adapt to the sight in front of her. Clarke is sitting by her bed, lips still slightly parted as if still on the verge of that last unsung note. Her blonde braids sweep down her shoulders as the Amazon leans forward, crystal blue eyes averted from Lexa’s gaze. It takes Lexa a moment to realize that Clarke is in the middle of unwrapping her bandage to check the wound.

The brunette hisses, partly in pain as the wound is revealed and partly because she’s been holding her breath since she woke up and saw Clarke and Lexa’s lungs are screaming for release. Clarke notices, her azure gaze darting to Lexa’s for a moment only, catching the grimace of pain. “Almost done,” she mumbles, almost inaudible, but her hands move gently against Lexa’s skin as she pulls the blood-stained bandage away and begins to clean the wound with warm boiled water.

Lexa does not know why she cares. Why she is gentle. Why she is healing her. Why she is _here_. She opens her mouth to ask, trying to vocalize the questions bubbling up and colliding on the tip of her tongue, but cannot push the words past her teeth.

“You don’t have to look so surprised,” Clarke grumbles, dabbing at Lexa’s forehead with a damp cloth, clearly unconcerned about the way the Empress of Rome is gaping at her slack-jawed. “I’ve been here for nearly an hour. And I brought you some broth, though it’s gotten cold now. I tried to put it over a candle, but…”

The blonde reaches around for the small bowl, which is indeed resting on a small metal shelf on a hinge over a candle, likely some invention for brewing tinctures and tonics. Lexa tries dutifully to sit up, but forgets not to push herself up with her elbows and the movement pulls at her wound, blood beginning to soak through the front of her tunic.

The look Clarke gives her could cleave bronze. Lexa winces, thinking that Clarke’s resolve in helping her must be light, must be breakable and if she’s too difficult a patient Clarke might just decide she isn’t worth saving – but the other woman sighs and pulls the tunic aside, pressing against the wound until the bleeding slows. “Don’t try to get up without help for a little while,” she admonishes, and Lexa simply nods, unable to think about anything but the brush of the blonde’s hands against her skin.

A moment passes, Clarke still pressing down on the wound despite the fact that it’s stopped bleeding already, Lexa still unable to ask the questions pressing on her chest. Instead, after a moment, she asks, “Would you help me?” Her voice is a rasping, hollow sound, and Lexa winces when she hears it. How pathetic she must seem right now, how weak – and as much as Clarke seems to be on her side for the moment, Lexa cannot forget that the woman is an enemy. An enemy who is seeing her more vulnerable than perhaps any of her advisors or guards have ever seen her, save Gustus and Indra. She curses herself for her lapse in judgment in asking for the help. She must remember who she is.

Clarke is staring at her, her azure gaze flicking back and forth along Lexa’s, searching for something. Lexa tries hard to keep the Empress mask in place, to conceal the confusion and pain she is feeling, and Clarke turns away, apparently not having found what she was searching for.

Before she knows quite what is happening, Clarke is turning back, her now empty hands reaching for Lexa’s underarm and stomach, lifting her in one swift movement. The world tilts, and Lexa isn’t sure if the light headedness is from the movement or the touch or the sheer _strength_ in those arms as they lift her. Clarke is ducking her head, asking Lexa if she is okay, looking for reassurances. Lexa again wonders why she cares so much, but instinct takes over; she lifts her own hands to Clarke’s searching ones at the sides of Lexa’s face, cupping them gently.   Clarke sucks in a breath – surprise, or disgust? Lexa is not sure, and the cloud of emotions that lingers on the Amazon’s face is too difficult to read. She brushes her thumbs over the backs of Clarke’s hands, hoping despite herself that something more than self-interest has driven this woman to her bedside. But Clarke shudders and takes a deep breath, blinking rapidly, and pulls her hands and body away, leaving Lexa still wondering.

“You need to eat,” is all the Amazon says, and is Lexa imagining the husk in her tone, or is it really there? A trick of the imagination, of wanting? She shakes her head, trying to regain some of her detachment. She should not want this. Clarke does not want this, and Lexa has Rome to think of. There can be nothing else. Still, she has questions, and she tells herself that their answers matter just as much for the Empire as for its inquisitive Empress.

“Clarke,” she begins slowly, tongue catching on the “k” as she rolls the word slowly across her tongue. The Amazon turns, expectant. Lexa pauses, feels as if she might stop, then presses on. “Nyko told me that you helped me. In the throne room. I was poisoned, and you… you saved me.” Clarke is looking at her steadily, waiting. Cautious. Lexa takes a deep breath, then turns a bit, facing the Amazon more directly. The question is pounding in her skull, in her ears, in her chest. She ignores it, lifting her chin. “I would know why.”

It’s not a question, she tells herself, hearing the steel in her voice, but a demand. The balance of power has not shifted, not yet. She holds it still.

But the way Clarke is looking at her sends the doubt rushing back in. She manages to hold her expression and her ground as the blonde tenses, her expression torn between guarded and searching again. Clarke turns her back before she answers, reaching again for Lexa’s broth, which she’d placed back on the burner while tending her wound. “I need you,” she answers, and when she faces Lexa again, her eyes are blazing. “You promised to help my people. You promised to keep them from the fighting pits. I don’t know what your heir will do, what will happen if someone replaces you on the throne of Rome. While you’re here, I can hold you to your word, and keep my people safe. If you died…” She trails off, and the leader in Lexa recognizes the logic in Clarke’s words. It makes sense, but the answer disappoints her somehow.

Clarke is holding out a spoonful of broth to her, urging, and Lexa is about to refuse, to claim that she can feed herself, when her traitorous stomach betrays her with a growl. Begrudgingly, she leans forward to take a sip of the broth, and then another when Clarke refills the spoon. They continue this way until the bowl is nearly empty and Lexa’s stomach, unaccustomed lately to eating, lets her know in no uncertain terms that it’s finished. She shakes her head at the next spoon Clarke offers, and the Amazon pulls her hands and the bowl away, setting it down. Blue eyes look back at Lexa hesitantly, and the silence stretches into awkwardness.

Lexa tries to break it with the truth. “You say you worry that my successor will not keep my word,” she starts, waiting for Clarke’s answering nod. “Do not fear on that account. The gods have chosen more wisely than that,” she informs the Amazon, registering the other woman’s puzzlement as she speaks. “My heir, Aden,” she explains, “he’s my cousin. Soon to be my son.” Clarke’s eyebrows lift, but Lexa doesn’t elaborate. She still doesn’t trust Clarke enough to tell her the extent of her plans. As much as she hates it, Lexa is still wounded, still vulnerable, and she can’t trust this Queen of the Amazons with her succession plans in advance. “He would honor our pact, Clarke. He will honor my promise.”

Clarke nods, absorbing this information. Her answering grin is crooked and shocking. “You mean I went to all this effort for no reason?” She jokes, her voice warmer than Lexa has ever heard it.

There’s a flush creeping up her neck and face, and Lexa wonders if she might be catching a fever. She shakes her head, the corner of her mouth pulling upward in what is almost, but not quite, an answering smile. “I wouldn’t say no reason,” she answers, and doesn’t miss the way Clarke’s grin widens at the response.

What happens next catches her even more off guard. “I need to take off your tunic now,” Clarke says, her voice even, and reaches for the bottom of Lexa’s borrowed clothing.

Lexa tries to draw away, but the pain of the movement restricts her, and she settles for stubbornly keeping her arms down to make the process more difficult for the Amazon. “You what?” She asks, pleased to note that she’s succeeding in keeping her tone steady despite her sudden disquiet.

Clarke levels her gaze at Lexa, her strict demeanor eerily reminiscent of Nyko. “I need to see the area around the wound, Empress,” she answers, speaking slowly, as if to a small child. “And your shift is in the way. I’ll need to remove it to be able to work without impediment.”

Lexa clenches her jaw and shakes her head, emphatic. “No. Send Nyko, if you must. I am the Empress of Rome, and must retain certain… dignities in front of my ambassadors.” She feels vindicated, as if she has made a fine point, but Clarke bursts out laughing.

“Empress,” she snorts, mirth written plainly on her face, “I have been _feeding_ you for the last several minutes.” At Lexa’s blush, she softens, tugging gently again on the bottom of the plain cotton shift. “Besides,” she adds, “I’ve seen it all before.”

Lexa’s hand sweeps down immediately, the speed shocking Clarke into pulling her arms back. “You’ve what?” There’s a ringing in her ears, and she’s vaguely aware that she’s repeating herself, but surely Clarke is referring to seeing naked women in general, right? Not Lexa herself? When could she have possibly…

Clarke’s face is entirely too smug. “Who do you think got you into these clothes?” she asks, and the ringing in Lexa’s ears suddenly becomes a deafening roar. Clarkes takes advantage of the distraction to sweep the shift over Lexa’s good arm and head, taking more time with sliding it down the length of her wounded arm. To her credit, the Amazon remains professional, her focus never wavering from Lexa’s wound as she carefully probes the tender skin around the gash. “It doesn’t look infected,” she opines, ignoring the stunned look Lexa is giving her.

Lexa has been in compromising situations before. She has been a new, female Empress standing in front of a crowd of unfriendly Senators, trying to prove her worth and her right to rule. She has been weaponless on a battlefield before a host of Visigoths. She has been naked countless times, in front of countless women, and never batted an eye. She has never been more self-conscious than she is right now.

She is about to say something, anything, to lessen the tension in the room, but the guards are making a stir outside, and before she is quite ready, they are announcing the last person she expected to see.

Costia au Junia waits barely a moment after her name is announced before brushing her way past the guards and to Lexa’s side. She does not hesitate at seeing Lexa’s state of undress or the Amazon warrior tending to her wound, barely seeming to notice as she sweeps into the room. “Alexandria,” she breathes, apparent concern overwhelming her sense of propriety in addressing the Empress in front of another, “I have been so worried.”

Lexa can only stare open-mouthed as Costia drops to a seat beside the bed opposite Clarke, her hands outstretched in supplication. Belatedly, Clarke raises the shift to cover Lexa’s exposed chest, only to have it brushed away by Costia. “Nothing I haven’t seen before,” she assures the Amazon, and Lexa notes the brief clench of Clarke’s jaw as the Amazon pulls the shift away again.

“I was just examining the wound,” Clarke says to Costia, her voice a blade once again. “The Empress will heal, but she needs her rest. She has not yet been allowed visitors.”

Costia lifts her chocolate gaze to Clarke, mildly taken aback. As if noticing her for the first time. “Aren’t you that Amazon warrior everyone’s been talking about? The translator?” Clarke’s answering nod is barely a dip of the head, but it’s enough for Costia. “Of course,” she says, her honeyed tone immediately apparent to Lexa as the condescending one nobles use when speaking to their servants, “I will only be a minute. I just want to make sure my dear Alexandria has everything she _needs_.” There’s an emphasis on the last word that Lexa doesn’t miss, a sensual promise that part of her disloyal, faithless body yearns to see the Junia fulfill.

Again, Clarke’s jaw moves. “She is being well cared for, I assure you,” the blonde answers, and Lexa wonders if her input will be needed in this conversation after all. “But she does need her rest.”

Why is Costia here, of all people? Surely she is not here solely out of concern for Lexa – their affair is hardly one of feeling. What alternative concern could the Junia have, visiting Lexa at her bedside like this? Is she trying to gauge her weakness for an attack?

But despite all of Costia’s posturing with Clarke, the worry in her eyes as she looks over Lexa’s wounded shoulder is real. The touch of her hands, hesitant and gentle as they ghost over her collarbone towards the injury, seems genuine. Does Costia care for her more than she’d realized? When the woman turns to Lexa, all pretense removed, the young Empress wonders if she has her answer.

“I am so glad to find you well, my darling,” Costia breathes, almost a whisper, her head dipping low to place her lips near to Lexa’s ear. Lexa is mortified to see her nipples harden at the husk in Costia’s voice, aware that Clarke can see the entire exchange. Perhaps there is still more poison in the wound, and she can yet be saved from the awkwardness of the situation.

“I am glad to see you, Costia,” Lexa answers, managing not to make it sound like a lie. The Junia is a welcome sight, after all – it’s just the timing that she could do without. “But you must let Clarke finish her work. I will call on you later, when I am well enough. I expect it to be within the day.”

Clarke clenches her jaw, but does not contradict her, and Costia nods, apparently unaffected by the dismissal. “I shall await you eagerly,” she announces, and then leans forward to give Lexa a sound kiss on the lips.

Face crimson, Lexa tries not to think of the way her pebbled skin must be flushing as she watches Costia go. Perhaps Clarke won’t notice. Perhaps she doesn’t care. Perhaps the Underworld will suddenly open up and swallow her whole.

The Amazon says nothing as she smears a paste on Lexa’s wound and slowly rewraps it. She is not as gentle as she was before, though she doesn’t actively hurt Lexa. On her way out the door, Lexa calls out to her, and for a moment, it seems as if she might not stop.

But she does, long enough for Lexa to ask her to attend her again tomorrow. To help with an audience she must have. Long enough for Clarke to agree.

 

\-------------------------------------

 

Clarke storms down the hallway from the infirmary, putting as much distance as she can between herself and the Empress of Rome. Alexandria au Augustus, Conqueror of the East and the Amazons and Master of half the rest of the known world, too self-important and gods damn arrogant to even let herself heal before entertaining her harem in the _infirmary_ , of all places. Did the woman have no decency, letting one of her whores in there while she was _half naked_ so they could do _that_ in front of Clarke? The Empress needed to _rest_ , needed to _heal_ , and she sure as hell wasn’t going to do that with that Costia woman draped all over her.

There is a strange roiling in her stomach, and she thinks of the broth she just fed the Empress. Thinks of the woman’s full lips wrapped around the spoon, her fingertips resting lightly on Clarke’s wrist, holding her in place as the Empress eats from her hand. Thinks of emerald eyes and the little goose marks on her flesh as her shift was removed, the way her bronze skin flushed with color when the Junia… She forces the thoughts away, angling her feet towards the palace’s kitchen. She hasn’t eaten yet, having wanted to see to the Empress’s care before taking her own meal.

Now, she curses herself for being so considerate of her enemy’s comfort. If the unease in her gut is anything to go by, she is starving. Starving, and still angry enough to, to… She steps into the kitchen and almost immediately catches sight of Niylah, her brown hair tucked behind her ears, humming tunelessly as she sweeps the floor. It’s getting late, and the room is empty but for the slave girl and her broom.

And then the hunger inside Clarke shifts, becomes a different kind of want, of _need_ , and Niylah barely has time to breathe in with a sharp, surprised squeak as Clarke spins her around and presses her lips against Niylah’s, pulling the other woman closer as Niylah recovers and begins to kiss back. Niylah drops the broom she has been holding as Clarke walks her backwards, stopping when Niylah’s back hits the wall. Clarke’s tongue is searching, exploring and Niylah lets out a little mewl of protest as the Amazon breaks their embrace, blue gaze darkened almost to black as she lifts the apron off of the other woman and throws it sideways onto the rack.

Niylah reaches for her, grasping, and Clarke lets herself be pulled back in as she slides her mouth down to the other woman’s neck, nipping at the skin just above her collarbone. Her hands wander down the woman’s sides, nails scraping against skin as the Amazon hikes up Niylah’s tunic, and Niylah is squirming, gasping as the shift is pulled higher and the Amazon’s hands find her breasts, brushing over hardened nipples and pulling, her mouth relentless against the skin of Niylah’s neck and chest.

“Please,” Niylah pants, her hips canting forward against Clarke’s, and something primal in the Amazon roars to life at the plea for release. Her hand travels lower, and then she is inside Niylah, two fingers pushing past the woman’s waiting walls, in and up, and out, and in, Niylah’s panting growing louder and then turning into gasps and then cries of pleasure, the slave rocking hard against Clarke’s firm grip, her body hunched over Clarke’s shoulders as she tries to take as much as possible of the Amazon in. Clarke holds her steady as she pumps her fingers harder, then faster and Niylah’s cries increase in pitch and volume, their movements increasingly frenetic as the other woman nears her release.

And when Niylah finally comes with an aching, trembling cry of release, Clarke tries not to feel guilty that the eyes that flash beneath her closed lids are green, not brown, and the voice that she imagines as Niylah calls her name is deeper, more commanding. Clarke tries not to think that the woman coming apart under her hands is the wrong one. She opens her eyes just as the last of Niylah’s trembles finally subsides, and meets the shy grin the other woman is giving her with a wicked one of her own. She drops to her knees in front of the slave girl and pushes Niylah's knees apart, determined to forget the Empress of Rome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because Lexa can't be the only one who's getting any. Next chapter will be a little bit Anya-centric, and for those of you who like Ranya, have heart! We're getting there. Let me know what you think!


	10. X

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, two weeks is shorter than a month, right? Right? On the positive, this is a bit longer chapter. Clarke is still angry at Lexa, but Gustus sorts her out.

“He’s just a boy, Alexandria!” Anya is trying to keep her voice down, is aware that she cannot just _scream_ at the Empress of Rome, but gods damn it if she’s going to let her son go without a fight. Some part of her has always known that this moment would come, that she wouldn’t be able to stave off the needs of the Empress and her son’s destiny forever, but she had hoped to see him to manhood, at least.

The Empress is still calm, although Anya can see by the slight flare of her nostrils that her patience is wearing thin. They are in Alexandria’s private chambers, the Empress still too weak to make the longer walk to the throne room. Gustus briefed Anya on the attack and Alexandria’s recovery this morning, the information part of her right as a member of the Imperial family.

Alexandria is reclining now, laying on a long cushioned pallet piled high with goose down pillows for her to lean against. Her color appears normal, and truth be told, Anya can hardly see any evidence of poison or weakness in the woman seated across from her. Or she wouldn’t be able to, at least, if not for Alexandria’s voice, which holds little of her usual steel. “He’s barely a year younger than I was when I took over as Empress,” she replies, and at Anya’s exasperated look, continues, “And he’s already leading men in battle. I will train him, Anya. I will make him ready. And there will be many years yet for him to learn.”

“Gods grant that is so,” Anya answers, leaning forward and templing her fingers against her forehead. “But there are clearly those who would disagree. If you cannot even protect yourself, how can I expect you to protect my son?”

Alexandria breathes out deeply through her nose, shuts her eyes, and opens them, a second too long for a blink. “I will do the best I can with him,” she says quietly. “I will protect him with every resource at my disposal. I will teach him everything I know about fighting, both physically and mentally. I will keep him away from danger whenever possible.” She raises her gaze to meet Anya’s, and it is unflinching. “But he will be heir to Rome, and neither of us can protect him from that.”

Anya clenches her fists, about to inform the Empress that she is in no way reassuring, but Alexandria cuts her off before she can start to speak. “You have taught him to be strong, Anya. You have to trust in that strength.”

She wants to argue more, wants to shake Alexandria, make her listen to reason, but she knows the Empress is right. She’s always known that no matter how many times they have this conversation, Alexandria will have to take him. He’s a Julii, and the throne must be secure. And Alexandria can’t bear a child herself, not without losing her Empire. And she can’t delay the inevitable forever. “When?” she asks weakly, and hates herself for letting her voice crack as she asks.

“Tomorrow.” The answer is quick, the tone firm, as if Alexandria is worried that Anya will start arguing again and is trying to head her off. She needn’t. Aden will not grow more ready in a week, or a month, and though time with her son is as precious as ever, Anya knows that he needs as much time as possible in the palace to prepare for the challenges ahead. So she simply nods and says nothing, folding her hands together in front of her body and waiting to be dismissed.

If Alexandria is surprised at the acquiescence, she does not show it. She merely bobs her head in acknowledgment at a deal well made and moves on. “I am sending you a new household servant,” she tells Anya, “One to help with some of the extra burden, now that Aden will be out of the house.” Anya flinches at the reminder, but manages to merely look curiously at her cousin.

“She will need to serve you in a capacity more like a scribe than a maidservant,” Alexandria continues. “She’s one of the Amazons, and was injured in the battle when a horse fell on her. Her leg was near crushed, but she has recovered well enough for some light work now. I expect her to be able to do some light housework, but not much more. By all accounts she is strong, intelligent, and has a temper to rival Mars himself.” She flashes Anya a wicked grin that reminds Anya of their younger days together. “Sounded perfect for you.”

The Senator takes a deep breath, in and out, trying to rein herself in. “You’re giving me a _crippled_ servant to replace my firstborn son?” She demands, and the grin slides off Alexandria’s face. “Do you realize exactly how much of an insult that is?”

Alexandria lifts her hands palms up, placating, looking bothered by Anya’s reaction. “Of course not, of course no one can replace him,” she says, and Anya seethes at the condescension. “But I know Aden was helping with your side work, the architecture. This Amazon – well, she seems to have a knack for such things. The other day she spent nearly half an hour harassing my master at arms into reorganizing the armory to make it more efficient. The soldiers have never moved so quickly.” She frowns. “Although that devil did somehow also manage to slip pitch onto several of the spear handles without the master noticing, so that half the guards on wall duty ended up stuck to their weapons.” She shook her head. “Still, it seems the woman has a quick mind, and it seems that might be something you have a need for in your household. I will pay her stipend, of course.”

Anya takes a moment to digest this information. She didn’t know that Alexandria was aware of her architectural aspirations – truly, it was her husband’s business, but though he was a good man and a gentle soul, he had not inherited his father’s intelligence when he inherited the business. Luckily, Ryder’s father had owned several businesses, and Ryder was able to delegate most of the day-to-day workings to employees while he himself enjoyed the constant income from the businesses. Anya helped generally with the household finances, as a proper Roman wife, but she lately she had taken an interest in architecture and had been playing a larger role in that portion of the business. How had Alexandria found out?

“It may be, at that.” Sorting her thoughts is like trying to wrangle a newborn sheep back into the herd. “Send her to me. I’ll see if I can find a use for her.”

Alexandria nods her consent, and just like that, the conversation is over. Transaction finished, a slave for a son. Anya feels hollow, as if someone has carved out her humanity, as if she were one of those stone warriors the rulers had built in the East.  

She turns to go, but Alexandria calls after her. “By noon, Anya.”

Anya does not acknowledge the words as she exits the room.

 

\-----------------------------------

 

After Anya leaves, Lexa spends the next several minutes lost in thought about the days to come. With the other woman out of the room, she sends the Praetorians to guard her door from the hall and allows herself to slide down the cushions, shutting her eyes and relaxing back into semi-consciousness. She has not been sleeping well since the attack, images of her soldiers’ severed heads drifting up to plague her slumber.

She still has trouble understanding what happened that day. She’s met Boudica once before, several years ago under the eagle standard of her mentor and then Emperor, Octavian Augustus. The woman had been calm, even friendly as Lexa met with her husband Prasutagus on her cousin’s behalf. Her young daughters had been stoic beside her, standing as tall as they could while their mother radiated pride from horseback.

What the Visigoths did to those daughters, to Boudica… Lexa can understand the rage of the other warrior, the vengeance that she needs for the wrongs she has been dealt. Lexa herself would probably have been totally consumed by anger and bloodlust, she knows. And the Celtic queen has every reason to think that Rome will come for her husband’s land and for his coffers. She will think that Lexa means to bend the Britons to her will as she had so many other nations. It is hardly difficult to see why Boudica might see her as an enemy.

Still, she doesn’t understand the brutality of it. Killing her soldiers was something that Lexa had anticipated, had prepared for as a possible result of her peace mission. She had hoped that Boudica would listen, would see that the treachery was not hers, but she had known that there was a chance that her men wouldn’t return. But for Boudica to torture them like that… it doesn’t sit well with the warrior in Lexa. Her men would have told them her message, under torture or no. Artigas wasn’t killed quickly – he would have had time to convey Lexa’s offer. So Boudica had heard it. Heard it, and not believed. Heard it, and been so blinded by rage and grief that she tortured the Roman envoys and then beheaded them? Possible.

But then she sent their heads back to Lexa as a… what, a warning? What kind of warning comes less than a minute before the attack? As a brag, then, a mark of her brutality and revenge? As a statement? It does not seem like the woman that Lexa had met, nor like anything she had heard of the Celt since. Boudica is known as a fierce warrior, true, but honorable and a good leader to her people. And to Lexa’s knowledge, she had not defiled any of her previous enemies like this.

And why would she use poison, a coward’s weapon? Lexa would have preferred to face her enemy sword to sword, had she been on the other side of this campaign for blood. She still prefers it, truth be told, and will do everything in her power to meet the warrior head on in battle. But Boudica is a warrior as well, and no coward if any of the tales told of her prowess as a fighter were true. Why strike from such a distance, especially after making so open a declaration of war with her “gift?” Why not march on Rome, or even challenge Lexa herself? Perhaps she thinks that the risk of her own life was too great, that her people will not flourish without her. If so, she is right. Boudica’s death would likely mean the end of her people as a threat to Rome, and thus the end of their usefulness as an ally. The other ruler has to know that.

Lexa shakes her head. Too many “ifs” and “maybes.” Too much unknown in this. It sounds far more like something Nia would do, to send her the mutilated bodies of her loyal soldiers, to know the agony it would give a Commander like Lexa to see them like that, mauled and killed on her behalf. But the men in that rom were not Visigoths dressed as Celts – they were clearly Celts, and they had shouted Boudica’s war cries as they fought. She does not think that Nia would have been able to influence the Celtic tribes in such a way – the Iceni are a prickly people, and the Visigoths have never been much for diplomacy. An alliance there would be unprecedented. Troubling.

The knock is so loud that she jerks upright, the skin of her shoulder stretching painfully at the movement. Swallowing back a cry at the resulting pain, she forces herself to shift into a more dignified position before she calls, “Come in!”

Clarke ducks into the room, followed by Lincoln and Murphy. Lexa narrows her eyes at the sight of him. In all of the chaos, she’d forgotten to fire the man from her service. Something she will quickly rectify when she recovers.

The Amazon is beautiful as usual, her golden hair gathered into a simple knot, loose tendrils curling at the nape of her neck. Her skin is beginning to show more signs of exposure to the sun – Nyko’s doing, Lexa suspects, as the healers worked partially outside most days. There is something different in the tense set of her shoulders, the careful blankness of her face. Her blue gaze is disinterested, professional. There is no trace of the tentative peace that they had achieved last night.

“Clarke,” Lexa greets evenly. Warily. The Amazon merely bows her head, still not low enough for a proper show of respect, and only Lexa’s warning glare keeps Murphy from stepping forward to force the woman to her knees.

“Empress,” she says, and her tone carries the same flatness as her face shows. “I am here as requested. Do you need me to see to your wound?”

Lexa does not know what has changed between them, does not know if she should try to fix it, but she summoned the Amazon for more than polite conversation, and so she only shakes her head, a quick, controlled movement of the neck. “No. I asked you here in your capacity as _Legatus_ and scribe, not as a healer.” As if she can’t hear her, Clarke is crossing the room, brushing back Lexa’s hair and tunic to see the wound on her shoulder. Her touch is gentle but efficient, and Lexa has no reason to think she’s being anything but professional as she casually lights the Empress’s skin ablaze.

Attempting to mask her attraction, Lexa huffs through her nose, waving a hand at Lincoln to get him to step back from where he’d begun to approach to pull the Amazon away. “You should ask permission before approaching me in public,” she says quietly, willing Clarke to understand that it’s for her own good. “The guards will stop you if you do not.”

Clarke’s hands still, and she looks like she wants to say something, looks for a moment like maybe she will drop her disinterest and actually engage with Lexa, but she merely says, “Noted. But we are not in public, and I need to get a better look at this. It’s seeping through the bandage and needs to be changed. I think you may have torn it back open again.” The look she gives Lexa at this is so reminiscent of Marcus’s disappointed scowl that Lexa bites back a grin. Clarke turns to look at the guards, then glances back at Lexa pointedly. “Do you mind if they see you unclothed?”

 _I mind if you see me unclothed_ , Lexa thinks, but the thought of Murphy with his greasy eyes on her nude form disgusts her enough to answer, “Better if they wait outside. If you have to do this now…?”

“I do,” Clarke answers, and then turns to the two Praetorians, who are attempting to look as if they are not listening to the exchange. “You heard the Empress, boys,” she says, dismissive. “Out.”

Murphy grumbles on the way out, and Lexa can’t quite hear it all but she catches the words “blonde” and “bitch” as he goes. “Lincoln?” She calls out before the bigger man has quite left. “Send me Gustus as soon as you can. I have something immediate to discuss with him.” With a bow, Lincoln leaves to do her bidding.

With the men gone, Clarke retreats to the door to snatch up the satchel she’d left there on her way in. As she goes about removing the supplies she needs and placing them on the table, Lexa tries again to dissuade her. “It’s fine, Clarke, it’s healing.   I have other business I wanted to discuss with you.”

The Amazon just stubbornly shakes her head. “Can you get your tunic off yourself or do you need my help?”

Lexa debates the relative embarrassment of asking for help versus attempting it herself and being unable to accomplish the task. It takes her a few moments too long apparently, because Clarke is there an instant later, smoothly pulling the clothing up and over her head. Exposed once again in every way to this woman who should be her enemy, Lexa wraps herself in the protection of the Empress.

Summoning as much dignity as she can muster, she says, “Clarke, I need to discuss the upcoming adoption ceremony with you. I am formally adopting my nephew Aden in two days, and I need you there to represent the Skaikru and to record the events of the day.”

Clarke’s fingers are achingly close to Lexa’s breasts and she removes the dirty bandage and scrutinizes Lexa’s shoulder. “This doesn’t look infected,” she mutters, “But I’d like it to look a little less red. I need some hot water,” she tells the Empress. “Where would I get that?”

Lexa stares at her for a heartbeat, nonplussed. “Are you ignoring me?” she asks, shock pulling her out of her detached performance. Clarke just looks at her, challenge in her piercing blue gaze, and Lexa shakes her head in disbelief as she gestures with her good arm to a taut length of twine on one wall of her chambers, stretching up into a small hole near the ceiling. “Tug on that.”

Confusion replaces challenge in crystal blue eyes, but Clarke reaches over to give a firm pull on the rope. She waits for a moment, but when nothing happens she turns back to look at Lexa, the question written across her face. _What was that supposed to do?_

Lexa just smirks at her, pleased to be the one confusing the Amazon for once, and seconds later a serving girl appears, slight and comely, with a bushel of dark curly hair. Lexa remembers seeing her around the palace, has been waited on by her before, though she is not one of Lexa’s regular bedservants. She blushes crimson at seeing the Empress disrobed, her eyes lingering on Lexa’s exposed body as she stammers out a greeting, asking what the Empress needs from her.

Clarke flickers from surprised and impressed to iron and command in the space of a second. “The Empress needs a bowl of hot water. Make sure you boil it thoroughly – it needs to be pristine for me to use it. And let it cool just a bit before you bring it to us.” The girl bows and then looks up, as if waiting for additional instruction. “Now,” Clarke practically growls, and the servant flushes red again and scurries away from the storm in the Amazon’s eyes.

When she turns back to Lexa, the brunette raises an eyebrow at the sudden change in demeanor. “Are you going to put the fear of the gods into all of my servants, or do you just dislike that one particularly?”

“Do all of your servants ogle you so blatantly?” Clare shoots back. “I’m trying to patch you up, Empress, and I’d appreciate it if you can keep your romantic life at bay long enough for me to at least get a bandage on you.”

Startled by Clarke’s anger, Lexa can only blurt out, “The servant girl? Romantic?”

The Amazon merely rolls her eyes, and the bitterness in her eyes surprises Lexa. “Look, what you want to do with your slaves is your own business. I won’t pretend to like it, but there’s nothing I can do. Just keep it out of my infirmary.”

Feeling the anger beginning to rise within her, Lexa responds through clenched teeth. “One, we’re not in the infirmary, and as it exists within my palace, it’s my infirmary. Two, I never take what is not freely offered. And not even then, from servants. I understand that, for some, freedom is more relative than others.” Was this what Clarke thought of her? Did she think Lexa was some kind of monster? Lexa cultivated her own reputation for brutality, found it useful in dissuading challengers, but she had never cultivated this.

Clarke snorts derisively, bringing her back to the present. “Ah, so the mighty Empress of Rome admits that her servants are just slaves with a stipend. I’m glad to hear you see the situation so clearly, despite the pretty words you couch it in.”

Lexa is fully aware of how much that reasoning applies to the Amazon in front of her. It is the first time that she has admitted to Clarke that although her servants are not slaves in the technical sense, they are not all willingly employed in the service of Rome. She wishes it were not so, that she could turn a centuries-old Empire on its heel and end this practice, but she knows that it is not so simple. Her hold on power is too tenuous to allow her to change the economy so drastically. Even enforcing a system like the one she’s created in the palace nationwide would have the patricians revolting. It would be civil war.

She can’t say any of that to Clarke, can’t explain the burdens of her Empire or her rule. She can’t let this Amazon queen, who so clearly hates her, see her hesitate. She deflects. “Is this about my servants, or about Costia? You two didn’t seem as if you would be fast friends anytime soon.”

The Amazon’s eyes blaze with blue fire, but her voice is quieter, more controlled as she answers. “As I said, Empress. I do not care what you do in your private life, but I cannot do my work with all the ladies of Rome draped across you.”

Lexa’s temper flares again, though she cannot say why. Does Clarke think Lexa just allows people to talk to her like this, just allows near strangers to scold the Empress of Rome in her own bedchamber? She breathes deeply to try to calm herself, repeating an old Roman maxim in her head. _Iracund_ _íum qui vincit, hostem sup_ _ĕrat maximum._ There is no benefit in angering her healer, her scribe, her ambassador, or her enemy. She can gain only from diffusing this situation.

“Clarke,” she begins again, calmly, noticing the way the Amazon is looking at her, as if the wrong word will send her shying away from the conversation like an unruly mare. “I did not invite Costia into the infirmary. I did not know she was going to be there, and if you’ll recall, once she was there I asked her to leave so you could do your work. Nor did I invite or encourage the attentions of that servant. You have done me great service as a healer in this palace, despite having strong motivation to the contrary. I would not make it more difficult for you to continue.”

Clarke seems somewhat mollified by this, her body visibly relaxing. “Good,” is all she says, and she is opening her mouth to say something more when the servant girl rushes back in, her eyes focused studiously on the floor. The Amazon reaches for the proffered bowl of water and has the grace to look ashamed when the serving girl makes a little squeaking sound, flinching back as soon as the bowl is released into Clark’s hands.

Lexa takes pity on her. “That will be all, thank you,” she says by way of dismissal, and the servant girl practically sprints out of the room.

“I didn’t think I was that scary,” Clarke grumbles under her breath, and Lexa gives her a slight, hesitant smile.

“You can be… fierce, when the occasion calls for it, Skaikru Queen. Do not doubt that.”

Instead of humor or annoyance, as Lexa expected, the look Clarke gives her is searching. It reminds Lexa of the day before, and she wonders if Clarke is searching for the same thing as before or for something different. Whatever it is, she seems to find it this time, and her gaze softens. Her movements are delicate as she dips a clean cloth into the boiled water, wiping the wet rag firmly over Lexa’s wound to clean it. Lexa hisses at the heat, and Clarke takes the rag away quickly, cursing at the servant’s failure to let the water cool as instructed. “It’s fine,” Lexa reassures her, but Clarke still waits another few seconds before dabbing at Lexa’s shoulder again.

They are quiet while Clarke works, neither able to think of anything to say while she washes the wound and applies an herbal dressing. She then bandages it back, finishing the wrapping just as another knock sounds and Gustus enters the room, bringing the smell of wood smoke with him.

He bows deeply to Lexa, his right fist over his heart. As he rises, he notices Clarke at Lexa’s side and raises his eyebrows, presumably at their closeness. The women both meet his questioning gaze evenly, though they do shift away from each other. Lexa can see the spark of amusement flare behind his eyes and she groans inwardly even as he greets her. “Ave, Empress.” He looks at the Amazon. “Ave, Clarke.”

Clarke moves to cover up Lexa, but the Empress waves her away. “Gustus has no interest in my breasts, Clarke. He is the head of my personal guard and has known me since I was a babe. He has seen all of me more times than either of us can count.”

Clarke raises her eyes to Gustus, who does, in fact, look completely uninterested in Lexa’s partial nudity. She sighs through her nose, and the glare she gives Lexa is as entertaining as it is terrifying. “Has everyone in this gods damned palace seen you naked, Empress?”

Deciding to risk it, Lexa just winks at her, and Clarke’s resulting head shake, exasperated and almost fond, makes hope flare in her chest. But she cannot allow herself that hope, not when Clarke still harbors such anger towards her, so she pushes it back down as best she can and turns back to Gustus. She realizes that he had greeted Clarke as if he knew her… had they met, or had he just recognized her from Lexa’s description?

As if in answer to her unspoken question, Gustus explains, “I met your young Amazon after she saved your life, Alexandria,” the burly man answers, his lips twitching in amusement when both women bristle at his use of the possessive. “I thanked her for bringing you back. She worked very diligently on you, you know. Nyko was impressed enough that he didn’t even take over; he just let her do her job. She worked for hours without stopping for rest or food.”

Clarke’s color has slowly been changing from pink to red, first in annoyance and now, it appears, in embarrassment. Lexa watches with fascination as she absorbs what Gustus is telling her. “She’s clearly very… dedicated… to her duties,” she finally says, earning a scowl from Clarke and a chuckle from Gustus.

“Clearly,” Clarke echoes, glaring at the big man for spilling her secrets so openly.

Looking as if he’s thoroughly enjoying himself, Gustus turns on Lexa. “You called for me, Empress?”

She glances sidelong at Clarke, wondering if perhaps she should delay this conversation for another day. The Amazon clearly still harbors enough hatred for Lexa to actively work against her – will disclosing this information pose any sort of risk for her? She cannot see how, and yet… She decides to simply be circumspect in her word choice.

“I need you to dismiss one of the Praetorians from my service,” she replies, and watches Gustus straighten, the mirth fading from his expression. “Murphy. I want him gone by the end of the week.” She’d resolved to get rid of the man even before today, but after hearing what he’d said about Clarke, she didn’t trust him to behave himself around the Amazon. She’d see him out herself if she thought her shoulder would stand up in a fight.

Gustus nods slowly, his expression darkening. “Of course, Empress. May I ask if he has offended you in some way? I could have him punished…”

Though Gustus is not outwardly questioning her, Lexa can see that he is reluctant to dismiss any of his men without reason. If they had been alone, she would communicate that to him, would explain the man’s unctuousness, his groping of Costia and his disrespect of Clarke, his tendency to discipline other but lack discipline himself. She would explain how he had let Costia into her rooms without telling Lexa, how she had nearly killed her lover before realizing it was her own guard who was at fault.

But she is not alone, and Lexa does not want to say any of those things in front of Clarke. So she tries to explain with her eyes, tries to communicate to him that she will tell him these things, will give him the reasoning he desires, but not now. “He has outlived his usefulness as a guard. The man is barely competent, and I no longer need him now that I have the Aquilli.” A noticeable bracing at this from Clarke as she recognizes Octavia’s surname. “He needs not punishment, but dismissal.”

A slight nod from Gustus tells Lexa that her message was received, and he bows again, just as deeply as before. “I’ll see it done, Empress. Is there anything else?”

Lexa is grateful for his formality. Despite the fact that Clarke already knows what he is to her, told by Lexa herself – perhaps foolishly – Gustus reinforces her power through his deference. He may like the Amazon, may be amused by her, amused by Lexa’s reaction to her – but he does not know whether it is safe to speak freely in front of her, either.

Lexa continues the dance. “That will be all, Gustus. Thank you. I’ll expect your presence at the ceremony in three days’ time.”

Clarke frowns after him as he leaves, looking like she’s trying to solve a riddle. Perceptive, for her to notice that she’s missed something in the conversation. She turns back to Lexa, the faint hint of scarlet on her cheeks the only indication that she’s been reminded that despite the Amazon having finished her work, Lexa is still sitting half-naked behind her. “Let me help you back into your tunic,” she offers, but Lexa shakes her head.

“That one is becoming a bit… ripe, I think,” she admits, indicating where the tunic has become stained at the collar with Lexa’s blood. “I’ve got a trunk of fresh clothes there,” she says, gesturing. “Would you bring me a new tunic?”

She expects some resistance from Clarke, but the blonde heads over to the trunk Lexa had indicated and opens it, finding a variety of simple but expensive clothing laid out neatly inside. She digs through it for a moment, selecting a tunic that is not the martial red of Rome or the deep purple of the noble class, but instead a rich, verdant green the color of the Empress’s eyes. Bringing it over to Lexa, she helps the woman shimmy it on, trying and failing to keep her eyes from wandering over the Empress’s firm, taut stomach as she leans over the injured woman.

Lexa notices, but holds her tongue. Attraction means nothing, especially when tempered by hatred. Deciding that they could both use a change in conversation, Lexa turns back to the matter at hand. “Thank you. For the treatment, and the tunic.”

Clarke nods again, her blue eyes back to their searching. Lexa bulls forward. “I do need to discuss the adoption. There is much you should know before Thursday.”

Clarke resumes her seat at Lexa’s bedside, and the two women spend the next few hours discussing the particulars of the ceremony – who will be there, names Clarke should know, titles she will need to include to preserve the record of the adoption. Lexa teaches her about the hierarchy of Roman nobility and the military that Lexa so favors, making sure to stick to knowledge that is commonly held so as not to give the Amazon any unintended military advantage. She is drilling the Amazon on the wording of the ceremony itself when Clarke throws up her hands, announcing that she is done for the day. “I’ll come back tomorrow if there’s more,” she tells Lexa, a pleading tone in her voice that the Empress finds is harder to resist than it should be.

She lets Clarke go with a wry smile, and the Amazon rises to leave just as a pretty, honey blonde kitchen girl enters the room bearing a tray of roasted fowl, lentils and onions, and freshly baked bread. Lexa’s stomach growls at the sight of her dinner, and she turns to Clarke, thinking to ask if the other woman wants to stay for the meal. But Clarke is frozen in place, looking wide-eyed at the kitchen girl, who is staring right back at the Amazon, looking just as stunned to see her at the Empress’s beside.

Lexa narrows her eyes, trying to decipher the interaction between them. How do they know each other? And then the kitchen girl is before her, setting down the tray of food on the table in front of the Empress and pouring her a cup of wine. The girl dutifully takes a sip of the wine herself before offering it to the Empress, and Lexa accepts it, thanking her out of rote. Because there is a mark on the girl’s neck, red and angry, a mark that looks much like a love bite. And the girl is backing away, her eyes again on Clarke, almost shy, as she bows and exits the room. Clarke follows her without so much as a backward glance at Lexa, leaving thunder pounding in the Empress’s ears.

 

\-------------------------------------

 

Clarke is _not_ running away. She has no reason to be embarrassed to be seen with Niylah so soon after their encounter in the kitchen, no reason to fear having her sexual exploits laid bare in front of a woman with an astonishing reputation as a lothario. There is absolutely no reason for her to feel this flustered as she leaves the Empress’s rooms. Of course, there was no reason for her to get angry over the servant girl, either, or over Costia in the infirmary yesterday, to bring it up like that. What is wrong with her? Why is she thinking about these things, discussing them even, with a woman who she should despise, should vilify? The Empress is playing her mind games again, trying to unnerve Clarke and pull her focus away from vengeance for her people. The Amazon will not let it happen. The Empress is still worth more to her people alive than dead, but someday soon, that will change. Clarke will not allow herself to be distracted when it does.

She is so absorbed in thought that she does not notice Gustus coming back down the hallway towards Lexa’s rooms, apparently to report on the dismissal of that Praetorian. She does not notice him so much that she actually collides into his bulk, slamming backwards towards the ground only to be stopped by massive hands wrapped around her arms, pulling her to her feet.

“Are you well, little Amazon?” He questions her, and she is so rattled by the force of their meeting that she does not even rebuke him at the nickname. Besides, she reasons, everyone is probably little compared to the massive Roman before her.

“I’m fine, Gustus,” she says, making to move away. He stops her, however gesturing down the hallway the other way, to the palace’s main entrance.

“Would you join me for a drink, Clarke?” He asks, his features schooled to politeness. “I would like to thank you again for saving my Empress’s life.” He thinks for a moment, and then adds, “And, as you are in close proximity to her these days, I would like to get to know you better.”

Clarke starts to protest, to tell the man she barely knows his Empress and wouldn’t be in her company at all if she could help it, but the earnest look in his soil-brown eyes has her accepting instead. “I have some free time,” she admits, and his weathered brown face cracks into a smile. “So long as the Empress will consider you a proper escort,” she amends, reminding him of her status. “I’m not really allowed to leave on my own.”

Gustus laughs out loud, shaking his head. “Is that what you think? Come on, Amazon!” he cries, clapping her on the back. She almost rocks forward at the strength of it, but manages to keep her feet this time. “Let’s see what you are made of!”

 

\-------------------------------

 

What she is made of, Clarke finds, appears to be mostly wine. Gustus has a hollow leg and has had three cups already with no sign of slowing, while Clarke is on her second and already feeling a little light-headed. Roman wine is strong, having come from the late harvest, and she is not quite prepared for the headiness of the brew Gustus had ordered for them both.

She looks around the _taberna_ , having been told by Gustus that this is one of the Empress’s favorite wine shops. She can see what might appeal to the Empress, the simplicity of the décor being chief among its attributes. Lit candles line the sides of the tiny shop, its walls stone instead of the typical wood most such buildings were made of. It is evening, and the candles make charming little pinpricks of light to will away the darkness outside. The candles and the bright colors of the art lining the walls give the place a cozy feeling. It’s rare to see art like this in a _taberna_ , paintings being usually reserved by the wealthy patrician class, and their smallness and color make Clarke wonder if the owner of the shop painted them himself. He is a round, jolly man with a ruddy face and a ready smile, attentive to his guests.

It’s almost… _human_ of the Empress to enjoy a place like this, and Clarke isn’t sure how she feels about the revelation. From everything she’s heard – and plenty that she’s seen, as well – she would expect the Empress of Rome to have far more sumptuous tastes. She files the information away for dissection later.

“To Rome and its lioness Empress!” Gustus says again as he raises his glass. “To Dionysus, great god of wine!”

Clarke eyes him in amusement as she raises her cup to meet his. He’s made the same toast every time he’s received a new cup of wine – maybe he’s not as unaffected as she thought. She decides to try to use the opportunity to learn a little about the situation she’s found herself in. “You know,” she begins, absentmindedly draining her cup only to have the shop owner rush over to refill it, “I heard the Empress mention that you will be at the adoption ceremony this week. I am to attend the _Augustus_ as well on that day. We discussed it afternoon after you left her chambers.”

Gustus looks at her over the rim of his cup, betraying no surprise at the abrupt shift in topic. “I’d expect so, Amazon. You’re scribing for her, aren’t you?”

She nods as if trying to be helpful. “Yes, I am. I’m working for both Nyko and the Empress now. Healer, scribe, translator.” _Warrior. Queen._

“A woman of many talents,” Gustus answers grinning at her. “The Empress is lucky to have you on her side.”

Something about the way he says that gives Clarke pause. It’s sincere and yet… doubtful? As if the man thinks the Empress really would be lucky, but is doubtful of Clarke’s loyalties. She can understand his hesitation. After all, his suspicions are not far from the mark. She decides to distract him with a question that she’d wanted to ask the Empress all day, but had not been able to.

“Gustus, why does the Empress have to adopt an heir? I mean, I know she seems to prefer the company of women, but… would it be so difficult a thing to bear the child herself? Wouldn’t the succession be more stable with an heir of the Empress’s own body on the throne?”

Gustus breathes out heavily at the question, expression going grim. He eyes her carefully, assessing. “Why didn’t you ask the Empress this question when you were preparing earlier?”

Clarke looks down into her own cup, searching for answers there. She doesn’t know that one, not really. “It seemed… too personal,” she finally offers, and it’s as close to the truth as she knows how to get.

Gustus lifts an eyebrow at her, disapproval lighting his features. “And so you thought you’d ask a stranger instead?”

She does not lift her eyes. “You’re not a stranger, not to the Empress. And it seemed like you might know.”

He draws his lips together, a gesture that looks so much like the Empress that for a moment Clarke wonders how much of a role this man really had in her childhood, but nods. “Succession is a complicated thing in the Empire,” he answers. “It is not uncommon for an heir to be selected and adopted by the ruling Emperor. Alexandria’s predecessor, Octavian Caesar Augustus, was selected by his uncle Julius Caesar after Caesar had no male heirs of his own. Alexandria’s own succession was slightly less common – she had no blood relation to Octavian Augustus, but was rather the niece of his favorite general. She won fame in Rome through her martial ability – she is, to date, one of the most famous warriors in the history of the Roman Empire. The first female _pilus prior_ , the first female _Primus_ , the first female _Legatus Legionis_ – and all before she was really even a woman. She was an orphan from a noble family, named after a famous conqueror, albeit a Greek one. Octavian saw the promise of this, and when the time came for him to name a successor, he overlooked familial ties and adopted Alexandria instead.”

Clarke draws in a breath at this information, stunned by the weight of Alexandria’s accomplishments and a newfound understanding of the difficulty of challenging her rule. “That can’t have gone over well,” she offers, thinking about how such a thing would be seen in her own tribe, the revolts that would come from it.

The big man shakes his head, wiping wine from his thick beard from where it had spilled into it. “No, it went over like a horse with a snapped leg,” he answers her gravely. “There was war, or at least the beginnings of it, when the announcement was first made. Emperor Octavian was alive to put down most of the initial rioting, but Alexandria was stuck cleaning up the rest after she inherited power. She holds on mostly by the love of the people and her ruthlessness in battle. Once the Senate and the patricians saw how capable of a commander she was, that she could increase their profits and land through conquest, they accepted her quickly enough.” He levels a bold stare at Clarke. “Of course, it means that she has to protect those trade routes, for the good of her people and her own throne.”

And the Amazons had been attacking those trade routes in the days before the Romans attacked, hoping to drive the invaders from their territory. Clarke understood the reasoning behind it now. She would not forgive, but from the Empress’s point of view – a wrong decision, made for good reasons. It did not lessen her need for justice, nor did it excuse what was done to Raven and her mother. To her people.

She lifts her head and returns Gustus’s stare. He sighs and does not speak further until she says, “But even though succession is sometimes done this way, why does it have to be? Why take her nephew?”

Gustus calls for another cup of wine, scratching his beard with his free hand. “Mainly because they share blood, and the boy has proven himself to be a good warrior. The boy’s mother, Anya, will still continue to be in his life. Aden au Julii, soon to be Aden au Augustus, is near fourteen now. He is far too old for anyone to ignore the fact that he was not born of Alexandria’s own body. Anya will still be in his life, still be his mother for all intents and purposes. The only thing that changes is the name and the title. And the boy will come to live in the palace, of course, to give the appearance of family.”

Clarke is still not sure she understands, not completely. Roman customs are still foreign to her; this idea that one can be a son but not really a son, an heir but not truly a relative. That people and their titles and their names can change hands with only a word from those in power.

Gustus seems to read the hesitation on her face. “Hear me, Amazon. Alexandria au Augustus is the first ever Empress of Rome. Do you understand what that means? Every move she makes, every decision, every battle, every tax and levy, every meeting, everyone she associates with and every word she speaks is examined and criticized by the nobility. Her own military might and her political intelligence are the only things standing between her and war at any given moment. I swear, sometimes she keeps that throne through sheer force of will.”

He leans closer, the intensity of his gaze burning into Clarke as he continues. “And not unlike your people, Amazon, Romans value power and strength. The Empress is an exceptionally strong warrior, and for the most part, that keeps them from remembering that she is a woman, from looking at her like they look at most women, as weak. Pregnancy would have her vulnerable, maybe ill, for at least nine months, and every second of that would remind those nobles that she is lacking in the one thing that most of them think makes them stronger, smarter. The vultures would feast for years if it ever came to that.” He leans back, gauging Clarke’s reaction, her wide eyes and her sharp, quick breaths.

Clarke feels as if her insides are burning, scalding from the rage building within her. “Women are not weak, Gustus,” she growls. “An Amazon warrior is worth ten of your legionnaires, and all of us are women. Your Empress is a better warrior than most of your men. None of that is weak, and least of all childbearing. Do you know how many women of my tribe fight almost up until the moment they give birth? Do you know the pain they bear, worse than any wound given in battle?”

He spreads his arms helplessly. “I know this, Amazon. I have two sisters, each with children of their own. I was with Anya when Aden was born. I understand the pain of it, the strength in it. But here, in Rome, women are not warriors. The Empress changed that – is changing that – but she is not thanked for it, not in most quarters.”

Clarke hadn’t known. It always seemed like the Empress was in such control over everything, was so confident in her own power. She hadn’t known it was so unstable – that, like Clarke’s own reign, there would always be those waiting to question her right to rule. It made her more vulnerable, more relatable. Was there a way to use it against her? Should Clarke instead be looking for an alliance? She glances back up at Gustus, sees the satisfaction and understanding in his eyes. He’d told her this for a reason, told her this so that she would see the Empress more personally. It was why he’d brought her here, to the Empress’s favorite wine shop.

She rises from the table and Gustus calls for the shop owner to pay for their drinks. “I need to think,” she tells him honestly, and he seems to accept this, draining the last of his wine and offering his arm.

They do not speak again on the long walk back to the palace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, some of you questioned why Lexa had to take Anya's son, and I totally get that. I felt like I should address it here. As a gold star lesbian, the idea of sleeping with a man, even to get a baby - even to get an heir for my kingdom - seriously squicks me out. I don't know that I could do it. But Lexa has that sense of duty, and so maybe she would, I don't know. I don't have to address it here, though, because there are a ton of really other good reasons for her not to, particularly in ancient Rome. Hopefully that's been clarified here for you guys. 
> 
> Also, I threw in some more Latin, so here are new and refresher terms:
> 
> Glossary:
> 
> Iracundíum qui vincit, hostem supĕrat maximum – It’s a wise man who holds passion by the bridle.  
> Ave: A greeting, like “hello”  
> Augustus: A term for the ruling emperor of Rome  
> Legatus: An ambassador, usually from Rome to another territory  
> Comes Domesticorum: Commander of the household troops  
> Pilus prior: The commander of one of the 10 1st centuries within the legion, one for each cohort. They would command the entire cohort in battle.  
> Primus, or Primus pilus (First Spear): The commanding centurion of the first century of the first cohort of the legion, and the whole first cohort in battle. The highest ranking centurion.  
> Legionis legatus: Overall Legion Commander (would also govern a province if their legion was the only legion in that province – not the case with Lexa)  
> Taberna – tavern; I used it interchangeably with wine shop


	11. XI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aden gets adopted, Clexa have an important talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this was a long wait. :( On the plus side, it's (sort of) a long chapter. It was supposed to be almost completely different, but I kept getting stuck on one scene so I rewrote it and then I moved it and then I basically just wrote this from scratch. I think once you read it, you'll forgive me. :) I hope!
> 
> Also on the plus side, next chapter is going to be super long but is already about half-written, so that should be good. Also (maybe) on the plus side, I made a Tumblr account to discuss this story and some of the one-shots I'll be writing (if you've got prompts, I'll take a look at them), so that's jaimeajamais as well if anybody wants to chat with me over there. I'll answer whatever questions you guys might have, and I'll also be posting my wife's fic recs, which are seriously good stuff. So check that out! And thanks for all the comments and kudos - you guys are the best!

Lexa drags her knuckles down Costia’s spine, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to the back of her lover’s shoulder. Olive skin glistens from exertion and the sated woman breathes deeply, drifting in the realm between waking and sleeping.

Costia rolls towards her, curling into the warmth. Lexa wraps her arms around the other woman, pulling her closer. This is what it should feel like. It should feel easy, like this. It should be Costia showing up to her room and saying things like, “I’ve missed you,” and “I need you,” and Lexa pulling her in and kissing her, and falling into bed and making the woman cry out and shudder with want. It shouldn’t matter than Lexa herself is too weak for the encounter to be reciprocal, that she isn’t sure that Costia can make her feel the things that… it shouldn’t matter. Costia is here, and she cares, and she worries. Costia is beautiful, and sweet, and available.

And Lexa cares. She cares about the creases now apparent near Costia’s eyes, as if the woman hasn’t slept the past few days. As if her worry over Lexa’s condition has kept her awake. She cares about the hurt in Costia’s voice, the insecurity that it took Lexa almost a week after the assassination attempt to reach out to her. Lexa knows it is not love. But it is not… nothing, either. It is not her normal assignation.

She crimps her fingers around Costia’s hips, inhaling deeply, relaxing. There is something deeply alluring about falling asleep with this woman in her arms. Costia smells of lemon and olive wood, of ocean salt and something else, something Lexa has come to identify as unique to the Junia.       

Clarke smells of forest and leather, of sky and freedom. And, yesterday, of freshly baked dough. Lexa’s lips drift over the soft skin of Costia’s neck, trying to dismiss thoughts of the Amazon. Costia is here and available and she cares, seemingly, about Lexa. Costia is warm and inviting and when she lifts chocolate brown eyes to Lexa’s and leans in, Lexa does not have to pretend to put feeling into the kiss.

She ignores the way guilt digs darkened fingers into her gut. She hears, distantly, Costia asking again if she’s okay, if she’s feeling well. “I’m fine,” she answers quietly, marveling at the reverent way Costia is tracing Lexa’s lower lip with her thumb. “Better now.” And she is not lying, though she is not telling the whole truth. Costia _is_ better. Not best. But she cannot have that, cannot even wish for that, and the woman in front of her is willing and kind and beautiful. Lexa knows it is better than she dared hope.

And so she leans forward and captures the Junia’s lips with her own again, reveling in the warm comfort of the embrace as she pulls them both down to the pillow. Gradually, the kiss becomes more heated, but Lexa brushes Costia’s hands away when they reach for the clasp of her tunic.

Her heart breaks at the understanding, the apprehension in Costia’s face. She closes her eyes against the sight, resting her forehead against Costia’s, nuzzling her nose against the other woman’s. Costia understands. She sees who Lexa is, as both Empress and as a woman. Costia is… magnetic, in a way that Lexa did not intend. And perhaps one day, when the golden-haired Amazon has gone back to her people and Costia au Junia is still here, in the Empress’s bed, Lexa will finally realize that she had what she wanted all along.

Clarke can have her kitchen girl. Lexa has Costia, and that will have to be enough. She brings the Junia back down beside her, entwining their bodies. “Stay,” she whispers in the other woman’s ear, delighting in the shiver that runs through Costia at the feeling of Lexa’s breath on her skin. Costia turns in her arms, pressing feather light kisses across her jawline. She reaches down, threading her hand through Lexa’s as she presses in closer to the drowsy Empress.

“As long as you’ll have me,” she replies quietly. Lexa stills at that, tries to think of something to say. She does not know how to respond to such an admission, how to respond to the way her heart sinks at Costia’s words. She stays quiet until she hears Costia’s breathing level off. Lexa lies awake for a long, long time before she joins her lover in slumber.

 

\-----------------------------

 

Aden au Julii stands before the massive throne room doors, trying his best not to let his nervousness show. His mother had not come with him to the palace, preferring to embrace him in private and then send him with a family servant to the gates instead. Aden understands; at the palace their goodbye would have been merely words and maybe a parting grasp of a hand instead of the warm, tearful exchange they had been able to have in the shelter of their own compound. She will be at the ceremony tomorrow, to see him formally renounce her own name and take that of the Roman Emperors. Still, he wishes she were here now. His mother has never been afraid of the Empress of Rome, and her brazen confidence would have been welcome at his side.

The Praetorian Guard who announces him is tall, with a shaved scalp and a soured expression, as if his wine has gone bad and the man is too proud or too poor to stop drinking it. And then Aden is striding into the throne room, keeping his shoulders back and his head high as his training taught him. He is vaguely aware of a sense of awe at the size of the chamber around him, the expanse of the marble and stone and the great, arched ceiling that seems to soar nigh unto Jupiter himself. But he does not allow himself to gawk, instead keeping his gaze on the woman before him.

She is seated on a tall, simple throne with a crown of laurels resting on her long, dark hair, holding the eagle staff beside her. He has no more time for reflection than that before he is dropping to the cold marble floor, right hand clasped into a fist over his heart and his head bowed nearly to the ground. His heart is thundering so loudly that he isn’t even sure he’ll be able to hear her if she speaks, and he wishes again for his mother, or even his comrades on the battlefield. Something familiar to ground him, to get him past the thought that _none of this can possibly be real_.

Oh, he’s known, he’s always known that he would likely be the next Emperor. His mother has made no secret of it, preparing him as best she could. But actually being in the palace, kneeling before his aunt, his Empress, _the Empress_ , who tomorrow will be his new mother… he feels as if he is drunk, as if he is dying and this is some tortuous illusion from the gods before he passes to the next world. But she is greeting him, in a voice as deep and cool as the Tiber. He stands at her command, keeping his hand clenched in salute. “Ave, Empress,” he responds, and is mortified to hear that his voice has come out higher than it would usually have done. Perfect.

His aunt is still, so still she might be carved of the same marble as her throne, and they spend a few quiet moments assessing each other. Aden has only met his aunt twice before, both when he was significantly younger. He is aware that she is not technically his aunt; his grandfather was brother to her father, making them legally third cousins. But she and his mother had grown up in the same household despite the attenuated familial link, and they regarded each other as something like sisters as a result. At least, that’s what his mother had told him when she was explaining how the son of a merchant with no ancestral political history like Aden could be nephew to the Empress of Rome. After tomorrow, it won’t matter, at any rate. The woman before him will adopt him tomorrow. He will call her mother instead of aunt. Although, he muses, perhaps he will always call the Empress above anything else. Especially if she keeps looking at him like that.

Her eyes are the green of the forests he fights in, a color he has always found comforting until now. He tries to stand still, taller, as she gazes at him, fighting the temptation to break the silence with another salute, or a question – anything, anything to get the Empress of Rome to stop weighing him with those eyes. He has the distinct impression that she is not quite seeing what she expected, and wonders if it is good or bad that she has not yet spoken again. That Praetorian is standing slightly in front of her now, facing him, the man’s cruel eyes sparkling with something like glee at Aden’s obvious discomfort.

“As you were, Aden au Julii,” she finally says, and Aden drops his fist from his chest, though he does not relax his stance. The Empress is a military commander; she will appreciate discipline and strength. He must show plenty of both if he is to meet with her approval. She leans forward a bit to examine him further, and he notices a quick movement at the corner of her eye – a wince? Is she in pain? But she is speaking again. “Your mother has informed you of why you are here?”

Aden did not expect her to be so direct. It throws him for only a fraction of a second before he nods in answer, reminds himself to keep his own expression as blank as possible. “She has, Empress.” He wonders if he needs to say anything else, to say that he is proud or honored to be adopted by the Empress of Rome, to lie and say he’s excited or ready or something, but it appears to be unnecessary as she inclines her head in acceptance.

“Tomorrow, you will become my son,” she tells Aden, and he feels himself quake inside at hearing her say the words aloud. “You will become my son, and heir to all Rome. Do you understand what this means?”

How can he answer that? It means his life will never be the same. It will never be his own. It means he will become Aden au Augustus, the Caesar, heir to all Rome, and will cease forever to be Aden au Julii, the centurion, pride of his parents and his own man. His mother has taught him that much. He will be the most powerful man in the world and will never be free. As his aunt is never free.

He remembers her from his childhood. The smell of pine and iron, the warmth in her arms as she’d lifted him, ruffled his blonde hair. The richness of her laugh as she watched him at play with wooden swords, calling him her little warrior and occasionally correcting his stance. There is none of that woman before him now. Just as he will no longer be Aden au Julii, she is no longer Alexandria au Julii, cousin of Anya and daughter to Gaius and Victra au Julii. She is Alexandria au Augustus, _Imperator Caesar Augustus_ , Empress of all Rome, Conqueror of the East and Master of the World. She is the victor of the battles at Thapsus and Philippi, veteran of the wars against Vercingetorix and the Gaius under Julius Caesar himself. She is legend.

And so must he be. Aden bows his head to his aunt, trying to communicate his understanding of the gravity of the situation in his movement, in his gaze. He is terrified, but he must not let that show. He must move beyond his own uncertainty, as his mother has always taught him to do. As her father taught her.

He thinks it is working. His aunt gives him a little smile, wry and not entirely warm, but a smile nonetheless. “You do not,” she contradicts him, though Aden can hear no reprimand in her tone. “But you will. Every day, from now until I return to the gods, I will teach you. I will show you what it is to rule an Empire as diverse, as sprawling as Rome. I will teach you to fight with words and well as with the sword. I will show you how to unite where others attempt to divide. To build where others would burn. To conquer where others would fall.” He finds himself leaning forward despite himself, listening carefully to her words. She is offering to mentor him. He would be a fool not to listen.

“We are the greatest nation in all of the civilized world, Aden au Julii. Today, it is my responsibility to safeguard that greatness. Tomorrow, it may be yours.” Solemnity has tempered the brief animation in her voice, and she leans back into her chair, reminding Aden to do the same. He struggles to piece his thoughts together, to understand the weight of what she is placing in his hands. Her Empire. Her legacy.

“I will not fail you, Empress,” Aden answers her, determined in his very bones. “I will be the strongest Emperor Rome has ever had.” She lifts an eyebrow at him, and he realizes his mistake. _Thrice-damned idiot,_ he curses himself as he scrambles to correct the mistake. “Other than you, of course, Empress. I did not mean – “

His aunt cuts him off with a raised hand. She is not smiling, though there is amusement dancing in those gripping green eyes. He holds in a sigh of relief at the realization that he has not offended her. “The measure of a great teacher is the accomplishment of their students,” she reassures him. “If you become greater than I have been, then I will be a great teacher indeed.” He is too terrified at the thought of making a mistake so early in their meeting to realize that she is joking with him. Later, as he readies for bed on his first night in the palace, he will think back and wonder. But now he is only glad that he has not already wounded their fledgling relationship with his too-quick tongue.

“Today, however,” the Empress continues, standing and taking a step down from her throne, “we have finished with lessons.” She extends her hand to him, and he takes it hesitantly, offering her the illusion of support as she descends the final stairs of the dais. She is not leaning on him at all, despite the return of that tightness around her eyes, and he realizes that the movement is to comfort _him_ , to give her an excuse to touch him and remind him that they are family after all.

As if reading his thoughts, she speaks again, inviting. “Come, nephew, and join me for the midday meal. I have a surprise for you.”

 

\------------------------------

 

The sour-faced guard stops at the door of the small antechamber off of the suite of imperial meeting rooms. The Empress continues inside and Aden follows her, only to be immediately engulfed in a warm, vice-like grip. A wall of dark muscle blocks his vision and he has the incongruous thought that his aunt has led him into some kind of assassination attempt. Then he recognizes the growling, booming laugh of the man embracing him. A moment later, he hears the pleased chuckle of the Empress behind him. “Let the boy go, Gustus,” the Empress chides his near-uncle, and Gustus releases him with another thunderous laugh.

Aden is torn between his chagrin at being called a boy by a woman barely six years older than him and his surprise at how quickly the situation has changed. “Gustus?” he settles for echoing, grinning up at the man who is best friend to his grandfather and like family to Aden and his mother. And the Empress, it seems. He extends his arm to Gustus and they clasp wrists, Aden saying enthusiastically, “It’s good to see you, old man!”

Gustus reels back in mock injury and Aden’s grin widens. It falters when he turns to his aunt, however, remembering where he is and why. “Empress, what…” he begins, and then realizes he does not know how to finish the sentence. The fond look on her face is so different from their interaction earlier; he does not know what to make of this woman who is both family and liege.

His aunt seems to read the confusion on his face, because she steps forward, placing a hand on his right shoulder. “Aden,” she says seriously, all traces of mirth fading from her face, “You will soon learn that things are very different for people like us when outsiders are watching. It is going to have a very difficult at first. I am going to help you as much as I can, but the crown is a heavy weight to bear. Learning to bear it will be lonely and hard. You will need as much of family, of comfort, as you can get. I have other duties, and may not always be able to provide that.” She hesitates, then adds, “And I realize you may not have much of an attachment to me, as of yet. But Gustus is the head of my household guard, and he will always be here. I wanted you to see him, to know you are not alone. And to have one last evening as a boy with his family before you have to be an Emperor-in-Waiting.”

Her voice is so quiet that he almost doesn’t hear her last words, and the sadness in her eyes… He wonders if his mother knew, if that was why she fought so hard against his adoption. A glance at his near-uncle has him swallowing a lump in his throat as the big man, too, is looking at him with something like grief in his eyes, with the same look his mother gave him this morning when he left. As if he is saying goodbye.

Aden clears his throat, gesturing to the olive-wood table behind them. He hopes the false cheer that he threads into his voice doesn’t sound too forced as he asks, “Didn’t you say something about lunch, Empress?”

His aunt eyes him for a long moment, then looks past him to the table. She nods, calling for a servant to bring the meal. “Of course. We shall have a simple meal this day, nephew, as tomorrow will bring a feast.” Almost as an afterthought, she adds, “And you may call me aunt in private, for now.” A hesitation, and then, “After tomorrow, it will have to be mother.”

Aden feels the truth of it settle in the pit of his stomach, making him feel as though he may not have much of an appetite after all. But Gustus is soon his old self again, and between his near-uncle’s boisterous teasing and his aunt’s wry rejoinders, Aden allows himself to be distracted from thinking about tomorrow’s ceremony.

 

\----------------------------

 

Clarke has spent the better part of the day in the infirmary with Nyko doing inventory. Luckily, most of her sisters have completely recovered from their injuries and are out working in various sectors of the palace. Even Raven is on her feet these days, although she still needs the assistance of a walking stick most of the time. Despite the other Amazons ostensibly being assigned to posts within the _Domus Augustana_ , Clarke has not seen any of them other than Raven since the assassination attempt. She suspects that the Empress has ordered them separated, not quite trusting Clarke not to stir up some sort of rebellion. Clarke still isn’t entirely sure that the Empress is wrong.

She hasn’t thought of escape much in the past few days, too concerned with keeping the Empress – and her promise of leniency for Clarke’s people – alive. And after her conversation with Gustus the night before, she can’t help but think that maybe there is more to Rome – and its Empress – than she had previously thought. Perhaps she can convince the Empress to return the Amazons to their ancestral land in exchange for free trade with Rome. Her people are not farmers or craftswomen, but their knowledge of weaponry and fighting skills are legendary. Rome is a martial empire, as Gustus said – there is ample incentive for a good relationship with fighters as good as those of Clarke’s tribe.

She is still lost in thought when she arrives at the door of the Empress’s private chambers, surprising herself with how quickly she traveled there. Octavia au Aquilli stands guard outside, along with the tall, muscled Gaul they call Lincoln. Clarke’s fists clench at her sides as she takes in the proud woman who killed her foster mother, but she remembers the Empress’s words from her throne room. _My First Spear may have killed your mother, but the order came from my lips._ And just like that, the resolve to speak to the Empress about a possible alliance breaks. She is Queen; she cannot forget who she is and what the other woman has done to her people.

Octavia is eyeing her carefully, her expression guarded. It is clear that despite Clarke’s efforts to save the Empress, this woman does not yet trust her. The Amazon stops directly in front of her mother’s killer, looking down at her from her two-inch height advantage. They stare at each other for a long moment, each woman assessing, angry. Clarke wants nothing more than to take the woman’s sword and ram it up through her ribcage, but she knows that she has to bide her time. The Empress will not welcome the death of her most promising new guard, and Clarke will never free her people from a dungeon cell.

After a tense moment that has Lincoln stepping forward in case he needs to pull them apart, Octavia turns her back on Clarke and raps on the door. The smaller woman’s expression remains disinterested, but the rise and clench of her shoulder blades betrays the discomfort she must feel at having her enemy behind her. A call comes from inside the room, and Octavia opens the door, gesturing Clarke past. “Clarke kom Skaikru is here, Empress,” she announces, and with another measuring stare closes the door behind them. Clarke does not miss how the other woman stays inside the room.

The Empress does not send her out, and Clarke is forced to leave the Praetorian at her own back this time as she strides towards the chaise where the Empress is reclining with a tall boy of maybe thirteen. The youth has the look of a young horse; scrawny but clearly growing in both strength and size. Despite his shifting body, his movements are fluid and graceful as he stands to greet Clarke, his startling blue eyes scanning hers with scarcely concealed curiosity.

She studies him right back, taking in his silk tunic and the Imperial purple sash that overlays it, his aunt bearing an identical sash next to him. If she hadn’t known already that she was facing Aden au Julii, the next heir to Rome, his clothing would have given him away immediately.

At his side, the Empress rises as well, one quick blink the only indication of surprise that she allows. “Clarke,” she greets, drawing the word out, the question apparent in her tone. “I wasn’t expecting you today.”

The Amazon shifts her feet, thinking that perhaps she should have sent someone ahead to make sure the Empress was available before just dropping in on her like that. She is clearly with her nephew, and occupied with the business of the Empire. Still, Clarke takes heart in the fact that the Empress doesn’t look displeased at the intrusion and lifts her head higher as she explains, “I came to check on you, Empress. To see how you were healing.”

Emerald eyes tighten at the corners and the Empress presses her lips together before responding. “I am quite well, thank you. It is good of you to see to me, Clarke, but there is no need.” She turns to the youth, explaining, “Aden, this is Clarke, Queen of the Skaikru Amazons and _Legatus_ to their people. She is working as a scribe and healer in addition to her ambassadorial duties, and is extremely promising. She was instrumental to Rome’s interests in a recent meeting with the Iceni tribe of Celts.”

Clarke’s eyes flicker upwards quickly at that, meeting the Empress’s, which are waiting for her. The Empress’s face is blank, guileless in a way that is as impressive as it is unsettling. She had assumed that Aden would have been told about the attempt on the Empress’s life, but apparently not even the new heir was to be trusted with the information.

“Clarke,” the Empress is saying, bringing the Amazon back to the moment, “May I present Aden au Julii, centurion of the Fourth Cohort, son of Ryder and Anya au Julii, my nephew and the next heir to Rome.”

“An honor, _domina_.” Aden’s voice is low for a boy his age, cultured. He gives her a deep bow and then rises, waiting. She nods her head slightly in return, and the boy’s brows knit together in puzzlement. It seems to grow as he studies his aunt, who clearly does not expect Clarke to bow to either of them. Clarke can almost see a clever mind beginning to work behind storm blue eyes so like her own. “Are you ill, Empress?”

The Empress shakes her head, the soft smile on her lips reassuring. “A small sickness, Aden. Clarke has me well rid of it, I assure you.” Emerald eyes meet her own, and Clarke feels something strange stir within the pit of her stomach. “She is an excellent healer,” the Empress concludes, nodding as if to confirm the truth of her own words. Clarke thinks she must have imagined the warmth in the other woman’s voice as she praises her.

Aden’s eyes are darting back and forth from Clarke to the Empress, the boy looking as though he has just been presented with a particularly difficult problem by his tutor and is straining to solve it. Finally, he seems to gain some insight, because he straightens and asks, “Will that be all, Empress? I would like to visit the temple of Jupiter tonight, to offer thanks and pray for wisdom before the ceremony tomorrow.”

The Empress nods, approval and pride etched into the lines of her face. “A fine idea, nephew. Would you join me for dinner after? I can have Gustus join us as well, if you’d prefer.”

He hesitates, glances at Clarke. “I would dine with you alone, if it pleases you. I know we have much yet to discuss before tomorrow. And… I would like to get to know you again. Mother.”

The Empress’s lips part in surprise, and Clarke’s focus is suddenly drawn to them, pink and full and _oh gods_ , the Empress’s tongue is brushing over them to moisten them and she almost takes a step towards the other woman before she remembers where and who they are. The heir is looking at the Empress like a puppy trying to please its master, his face all hope and eagerness. A beat passes, and when the Empress makes no reply, Aden clears his throat and speaks quickly. “You said I could refer to you as such,” he answers her, shrugging his shoulders in an attempt to look more nonchalant. It doesn’t work, and Clarke thinks that he will need to work on keeping his emotions more guarded if he is to be a successful Emperor. “Well, in private, anyway. And I didn’t see much of a point in waiting until tomorrow.” He gives the Empress a timid, lopsided smile.

She gives him a blinding one in return. Clarke stops breathing. The Empress is the most attractive woman she has ever seen on a bad day; even pale from blood loss or flushed with anger, no one else even compares. The Amazon has never been able to take her eyes off of this Empress, not even when they first met and Clarke thought her hatred would boil the very blood within her veins, but seeing her like this – seeing her unguarded in this moment, seeing her light and joyful and _free_ \- this woman is impossibly beautiful.

“Thank you, Aden,” the Empress answers softly, bringing her arms up to grip the boy lightly on his biceps, the embrace intimate but still within the bounds of Roman propriety. “You honor me.”

Aden colors with pleasure as he turns to Clarke, who quickly looks away from the Empress before she turns around as well. “ _Legatus_ Skaikru,” he says by way of farewell, and heads towards the door.

The Empress steps to her side, and Clarke forces herself not to move – nearer or further from the other woman, she isn’t sure. “Aquilli, go with him to the temple,” the Empress calls past Clarke. “Lincoln can guard my door on his own for now.”

The clank of a body moving in armor tells Clarke that the Praetorian has moved to follow Aden. A moment later, the door closes with a soft bang, confirming that they are alone in the Empress’s chambers. Clarke dares a sideways look at the Empress, who is scrutinizing her, a bit of the cautiousness returned to her eyes. Clarke curses that wariness as she follows the Empress back to the seats that she and Aden were occupying earlier, on the chaise and a couch across from it. The look in the Empress’s eyes is inscrutable as she gestures for Clarke to take a seat on the couch Aden has recently vacated, and the Amazon does so with no small amount of trepidation.

Clarke sits down much too quickly, distracted, and she ends up sitting too close to the Empress, their knees almost brushing in the small space. She thinks about moving away – she needs to get out of here, to _think_ about what her changing reactions to this woman mean. Something is happening here, something she cannot control and cannot stop. She is alone in a room with her greatest enemy, and all she can think about is how Aden looked at her when he told his aunt that he’d referred to her so intimately because they were in private, like Clarke’s presence was expected and _comfortable_. Why had he thought that? He’d only just met her - his assessment of Clarke would have been almost wholly dependent on the Empress’s reaction to her. Which clearly meant that Aden thought that she and his aunt were close enough that the Empress didn’t mind intimate family moments being shared in front of her. Which might be true, come to think of it – the Empress _had_ been forthright with her about her relation to Gustus.

And then there’s the fact that even though the Empress has an unlimited amount of Praetorian guards at her disposal, she chose to send away the only one in the room with them and not to replace her. As if she wants to be alone with Clarke, or at least doesn’t mind it.

Her mind spinning, she raises her gaze to the Empress’s, finding herself lost in an emerald forest. She tries in vain to focus her thoughts, to steady her breathing, to slow the beat of her traitorous heart. She needs to find a safe topic of conversation, fast. “You’re feeling better?” she asks, secretly praying that the Empress would answer in the affirmative and negate any reason for Clarke to get closer. “Your wound is truly healed?”

“It’s much better, thank you. It’s still a bit tender, but I don’t think it will reopen again.” The Empress’s mouth quirks upwards at the corner. “Though if it does, you’ll be the first to know.”

Clarke smiles, but can’t think of anything to say, and they lapse into another short silence. This time, the Empress breaks it. “What did you think of Aden?”

“He was very polite,” Clarke answers immediately, wondering how much of her impression she should actually share. “He seems… devoted to you.” The Empress nods, considering, and Clarke finds herself wondering again why the woman didn’t tell her soon to be son the truth about her encounter with the Celts. “Did you know him well, as a child?”

The Empress shifts position, and their knees brush together. Clarke takes a deep breath, but the Empress either doesn’t notice or doesn’t feel the need to separate them. When she speaks, it is quiet, so that Clarke has to lean in to hear her. “His mother and I grew up together under the care of her parents, my parents’ cousins. My parents were killed when I was very young, and so in every way that mattered, Anya and I were sisters. I was still a girl when she married Ryder, and had not yet taken my throne when Aden was born.” She smiles, a soft, sad smile that has Clarke curling her fingers into a fist to avoid reaching out to the other woman. “I had three years with him as his aunt before I was named the heir. Even after, I tried to visit when I could, but Rome… is a jealous mistress. There wasn’t enough time to see the lad often, and when I did I couldn’t afford to appear overly fond of him. I have enemies,” she levels a serious look at Clarke, “as you well know. Those close to me are in constant danger.”

Clarke didn’t expect this openness, does not know how to respond. It fits so well with what Gustus told her the night before. She aches for this lovely, lonely woman before her. “Is that why you didn’t tell him?” she asks, gesturing towards the Empress’s injured shoulder so that the woman will know what she means.

The brunette glances at the healing wound before responding. “Partially,” the Empress admits, “He’ll have to know the dangers of this position soon enough, but I didn’t want his reign to start under the shadow of an assassination attempt. I want to keep him protected as long as I can. But I also didn’t tell him because his mother didn’t tell him, and I don’t know why. I won’t second guess her decision before I hear the reasons behind it.”

That catches Clarke off guard, though she doesn’t know why. It seems so… domestic. She nods, sensing the line of conversation is over. Leaning back, she catches a flicker of something – disappointment? – in the Empress’s face before it’s gone, replaced with the woman’s usual blank expression. “Thank you for telling me, Empress,” she says truthfully.

Breathing hard through her nose, the Empress nods, her jaw working. There is something foreign in her eyes, something important that Clarke doesn’t recognize. “Alexandria,” she murmurs. “I know that you dislike me, Clarke, that you may even hate me for what I have done to your people.” She pauses, almost bites her lip and then catches herself. “I understand that. I do. But you have saved my life, and done me great service as a scribe and translator. As you are one of the better Celtic speakers in my service, I believe we will be working together closely for the foreseeable future. You have earned the right to the truth from me, when I am at liberty to give it. And the right to call me by name when we are alone.”

Clarke’s mouth has run dry. She glances around quickly, avoiding the other woman’s gaze, unsure of how to react. She knows the Empress’s name, of course – everybody in the known world knows the Empress’s name – but this? “I don’t hate you,” she blurts, that salient detail the only thing that she can latch onto right now without spinning out of control. _Alexandria_. Surely that’s an honor rarely given. Why would the Empress choose her? Is it possible that Clarke isn’t imagining this – this _shift_ between them?

“I don’t hate you,” she says again, and this time their knees do knock together, legs sliding against each other as Clarke scoots closer to the Empress, willing the other woman to read the emotions she can’t give name to in her face. “I used to,” she admits, her laugh disbelieving. “I still want to sometimes. I should. But… I don’t.”

Alexandria doesn’t react the way Clarke expected her to – she barely reacts at all, simply cocking her head to the side and studying Clarke intently. After a long moment, she leans forward, scanning Clarke’s face, seeking more. “What changed?” She asks, her voice a thunderous quiet in the sudden silence of the room.

Clarke shifts, her hands going down to either side of her body to brace herself on the couch cushions. She looks towards the ground, avoiding the searing gaze of the woman across from her. “I got to know you,” she answers, aware of how cliché it sounds. “I saw how you were. With your people, with your servants. With me.” She pauses, tries to gather her thoughts. Alexandria doesn’t speak, and Clarke can’t hear anything but her own mind as she struggles to continue. “And then you were hurt, and we spent time together, and I talked to Gustus and he said…”

The Amazon can tell she is rambling, can tell her frustration is showing in her face because Alexandria leans towards her, palm hovering over the blonde’s leg. After a quick nod, the outward expression of a decision made, Alexandria lets her hand fall. Clarke sucks in a quick breath, looking up again at Alexandria, whose emerald gaze is holding hers squarely. The Empress looks… conflicted, somehow. Not exactly what Clarke had been hoping for.   She shakes her head, ready to give up, but then Alexandria is squeezing her leg gently, encouraging. “It’s alright, Clarke. What did Gustus say?”

Biting the inside of her cheek, Clarke bulls forward. “He – he told me about you, how you came to power, how you keep it. How you fight so hard to make things better but there’s only so much you can do and I just – I didn’t know. I didn’t know how much _alike_ we were.” She huffs in frustration, raising her hands and spreading them. Alexandria is still there, still close, something like wonder in her eyes.

Clarke’s heart is thundering in her chest as she watches the other woman process the words, watches as Alexandria leans back, though she doesn’t withdraw her hand. Watches as the woman rages with some internal battle, as she stares at Clarke like she’s trying to see _through_ her, to her intentions and her truth. A nervous energy is rising within Clarke, and she battles with herself to keep it in check. It shouldn’t matter to what Alexandria thinks of her, but it does. She is reaching for Alexandria when the woman leans forward, both of them speaking at the same time.

“Alexandria – “

“Clarke – “

A beat of awkwardness as they both stop talking, and then shared smiles, nervous laughter. Alexandria looks up at Clarke from beneath her lashes, a strangely shy expression, and Clarke realizes that she doesn’t need any more words. She doesn’t have the strength to keep fighting the swelling in her chest when the Empress is looking at her with such obvious concern and asking to be called by her first name and _touching her_ , and she can’t remember any of the reasons she’s not supposed to be doing this when she closes the distance between them completely, only a few hands’ breadth to begin with, and brushes her lips against Alexandria’s.

The brunette freezes in shock. Clarke waits, but Alexandria is completely still, has not moved by the time Clarke pulls away a moment later. Alexandria doesn’t move her hand from Clarke’s leg as they stare at each other, both women barely breathing. Clarke doesn’t know whether to feel self-conscious, but the woman’s fingers twitch and suddenly cool air hits Clarke’s upper knee as the Empress’s hand moves from its position there and cups her face instead, pulling her back in to the other woman.

Alexandria’s lips are soft as they collide with her own, a sigh escaping her as they move together. The kiss is slow, assertive but not aggressive, a soft exploration of each other’s mouths. It’s moments or maybe hours or maybe days, the gentle swipe of a tongue across her bottom lip, the brush of eyelashes on her cheek, the soft squeeze of a hand around hers. Clarke parts her lips, wanting more, wanting to be completely swept away in this woman and this moment, but a knock at the door has them springing apart as Lincoln enters the room.

“Marcus au Quinctilia is here to see you, Empress,” he says, bowing with his right fist over his heart. He does not glance between the two women still sitting much too close to be proper, or appear to notice their disheveled appearance.

“See him in,” Alexandria calls, then clears her throat. She looks at Clarke with wide, apologetic eyes, her kiss-swollen lips still begging for a return to their prior activity. “We had a meeting,” she offers by way of apology, and Clarke can only nod.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she says, and practically flees from the room, stopping only to give the surprised Roman consul a nod before pushing past him and out the door. Lincoln blessedly does not follow as she makes her way to her room, head spinning.

She was Queen of the Skaikru Amazons. Her mother had given her the _crown_ , and with it, the burden of avenging her murder and the enslavement of her people. She had been taught to hate Rome all her life, taught that the Romans were greedy, arrogant, and selfish, willing to take anything and everything, even what was not theirs to take, if it meant riches or comfort for Rome. And from what she’d seen so far here, she still wasn’t sure that that wasn’t completely true.

She’d heard that the Empress was as cruel and capricious as any other Roman. Her brutality in war and promiscuity in bed were well known. But Alexandria wasn’t like that. The war part was true, as far as Clarke could tell, but it didn’t appear that Alexandria truly enjoyed that. At least some of it was necessity, a way to keep her Empire from civil war at her rule. And if the way she treated her servants was any indication, her brutality was much overrated.

And while it did seem that Alexandria had her fair share of bedmates, it seemed that they were all willing participants, which was not at all what Clarke had been given to understand. Alexandria was a female ruler of an Empire that did not respect females. She had to project a certain confidence, but Clarke had seen underneath that. She had seen the way the Empress looked at Gustus, and her nephew. Had looked at _her._

But did that change anything? The woman was still responsible for the crimes visited on her people, and as Queen, Clarke was still responsible for bringing her to justice. And instead of killing her, as the law demanded, Clarke was _kissing_ her. Her enemy. Alexandria. She couldn’t let herself follow through with this – attraction to the other woman. Blood must have blood.

There is a small voice in the corner of her mind that whispers to her, enticing. Perhaps a political alliance would benefit the Amazons more than a war. Perhaps a relationship with the Empress of Rome would help cement such an alliance. Maybe blood must not have blood, after all.

She silences it with a thought. She can’t afford to think that way. She barely has control of her broken queendom as it is.

It doesn’t stop her falling asleep thinking of the tender brush of lips against her skin, or the heavy lids guarding a pair of darkened emerald eyes. It doesn’t stop her from waking with the scent of the Empress, pine and vanilla, in her nostrils.

It doesn’t stop her from stumbling over her words at the adoption ceremony later that day, staring so intently at the Empress that she can barely remember what she’s supposed to say. And it doesn’t mean that she takes her eyes off the other woman, radiant in her full Imperial regalia, not even when she is seated at a table with Costia and the other _Legati_ during the feast after Aden’s formal announcement as heir.

She tells herself it doesn’t mean anything when Alexandria catches her staring as the food is being served and gives her the small, soft smile that Clarke is beginning to recognize as being reserved only for moments of private happiness. That Clarke’s own answering smile, carefully contained, doesn’t mean anything either.

She doesn’t notice Costia watching them from the far end of the table, gaze flickering back and forth from Clarke to the Empress. She only has eyes for the woman on her throne at the front of the room and the careful way she glances over at Clarke when she thinks no one is looking.


	12. XII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raven finds out what Clarke's been up to and she is not happy about it. Clarke finds out about Raven's new assignment, and she has some choice words for Lexa. Ranya meets for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone is well after the events of the past couple of weeks. I'm glad more than ever for the Clexa fandom - at least I can retreat into a haven of Clexa and Sanvers gifs when I can't handle reading the news. :) 
> 
> I didn't add a glossary at the end of this since I've used most of these terms before, so let me know if you guys need a definition! 
> 
> Also, I'm on Tumblr at jaimeajamais so please come and chat with me! I'll be giving updates on how the chapter is progressing so you guys will have an idea of when the next chapters will post. I'm probably going to be writing a few more little one shots in the future, trying to make my writing stronger, so if you've got anything you'd like to see, let me know that too! (And if anyone knows how I can add another little link to post fic recs under, please tell me. I'm legit terrible at social media).
> 
> Happy Turkey Day!

Her horse gives a heaving snort of relief as Echo finally draws to a halt just outside the Visigoth war camp, its great sides expanding with the effort of its breath. She slides off its back before it even stops moving forward. There is a guard approaching her, a hulking brute of a man with a jagged scar slashing down the length of his jawline and a cruel set to his mouth. He starts to question her, but she doesn’t even let him get the words out before she’s pushing the reins into his hands and barking her demands at him. “I need to see the Ice Queen. Now.”

His expression, if anything, gets even darker, but she stares him down until he turns and begins barking orders in Gothic to the guard behind him, a much younger man who almost trips over his own feet as he scrambles to obey. The big man gestures into the camp, and Echo follows him to a tent near the center of the camp that proves empty when she brushes back the flap. “Wait here,” he commands, and then leaves her.

Alone again, she takes in her surroundings. If the size and location of the tent weren’t enough to tell her where she’s been deposited, the sparse, martial decoration would surely confirm that she’s been led directly to Nia’s war command. Spears and bows line the walls, surrounding a large, thick table set with miniature tokens meant to represent troop numbers and positions. There are no chairs except a tall, straight-backed throne set on a long length of wood to elevate it above the rest of the room. It’s unbearably humid this far south, but even so, there is a small fire burning in the center of the room, a reminder of her Queen’s constant sensitivity to cold.

She waits. She waits as the sun climbs higher in the sky, reaches its zenith and then begins its slow crawl back down. She is beginning to drift off to sleep, still standing, when the tent flap opens and Queen Nia walks in, flanked by the same guard who had confronted Echo outside the camp. Echo is instantly awake, dropping to her knees on the ground in front of the Queen, head bowed.

Nia circles her like a panther, but Echo forces herself to stay still with her eyes down until the Queen beckons her up. “You have news,” Nia begins, the ice in her voice cutting through the heat of the air around them. “Important news, if you think to command my presence with it.”

Echo flinches at the words. She should have expected that the queen would take issue with her urgency. “Alexandria au Augustus lives,” she tells Nia, hoping that the news will distract the other woman from her anger. “She lives despite the attempt on her life this past week. An Amazon healer saved her.”

The Ice Queen tilts her head, considering. “An Amazon. After the Empress’s attack on the Skaikru? How unexpected.” Her tone drips with displeasure. “Is there more?”

“Aden au Julii has been formally adopted as the Empress’s heir. I left the city before the ceremony, but the news on the road was that it took place two days past. There is a succession plan in place.”

Nia’s snarl has Echo taking a quick step back, a move that proves prudent when the Ice Queen picks up a knife from the table and hurls it across the room, where it tears a hole in the side of the tent as it exits. “An heir for Rome,” she grits out, whirling away from Echo and beginning to pace the length of the tent. “That complicates things considerably.”

Silence falls and Echo does not dare to move, letting her Queen think. Finally, Nia stops and shakes her head. “If I can kill the lion, I can kill the cub. And if I can’t kill the lion…” Her smile chills Echo to the bone, making her finally grateful for the fire nearby. “I can certainly wound it. Does the Empress know we march?”

“She suspects,” Echo warns, “And she’s investigating. But no, she does not know. Your stand in appears to be working – the Empress thinks you are still in Visigoth lands. She does not know we are so close, or of our numbers.”

Nia turns to the table, starting to scratch out a letter on a wax tablet. “You may rest in camp tonight, but I need you back on your way to Rome tomorrow morning. I will provide a fresh horse. Take this to our contact there. There is much to be done.”

Echo bows her head as the Queen hands her the message, and then she is dismissed. She is burning with curiosity, but Nia only accepts messengers who cannot read into her service. Perhaps the contact will tell her some of its contents when she arrives in Rome. She follows the scar-faced guard to a nearby empty tent, where she eats a quick, hot meal of deer stew and then sinks into a warm bedroll. She has a clear line of sight to the Queen’s tent, where firelight still glows. It glows long into the night, until Echo finally falls asleep, and is still lighted at dawn when she wakes to leave.

She saddles her new horse in a hurry, eager to get back to Rome and away from her agitated liege.

 

\--------------------------

 

It’s been three days since the adoption ceremony, and Clarke hasn’t seen Alexandria since. She’s sure the Empress has been busy, training Aden and dealing with what seems like an endless stream of Roman nobles wanting to ingratiate themselves with the new Caesar. Still, she’d thought after their kiss…

Maybe it didn’t mean anything to the Empress. Alexandria does have a reputation, after all. Maybe Clarke was just another woman throwing herself at Alexandria, another conquest for the warlike Empress of Rome. It was probably naïve of her to think she would be different, but… that kiss. That kiss had been unlike anything Clarke had ever felt before. It was days later and she could still feel those lips against hers, those hands brushing her cheek, tangling in her hair. It had felt… gentle. Meaningful. And the way Alexandria had looked at her later that night, stolen glances across the dining hall... Clarke was sure that the other woman had felt it, too.

She still isn’t sure what she thinks of this connection between them, or whether she should explore it further.   One thing is for sure – she’s not going to figure it out without talking to Alexandria. And just like that, her mind is made up – she’ll go see the Empress after she meets with Raven. Even if they can’t talk right away, she’s sure that Alexandria will make time for her if she asks.

That settled, Clarke is feeling fairly good about herself as she makes her way across the palace grounds to the smithy. She expects to see Raven pounding away at a piece of metal or shaping something in the fire as she has been every other time Clarke has been to visit recently, but the other Amazon is nowhere in sight. Curious, she threads her way through the forge, ignoring the irritated looks she’s getting from the other workers, who are clearly not used to having blonde strangers weaving in and out of their workspace. It’s hot as the underworld here, which reminds Clarke briefly of the kitchens, and of Niylah. It’s been awkward with the other woman since their encounter the week before, what with Niylah clearly interested in repeating the experience and Clarke somewhat… less so. Another conversation she’s going to have to have soon.

She finds Raven in the sleeping quarters behind the smithy, rummaging around in a knapsack. She looks up when Clarke enters, and Clarke’s heart sinks when she sees the look of hurt flash across her friend’s face. The brunette’s features quickly harden, and Clarke feels the certainty of Raven’s knowledge pounding in her chest.   “You know about the attack.” She can hear the deadening of her own voice. “Raven, I –“

But Raven is on her feet, in her face. “ _Natrona_ ,” she hisses, and Clarke flinches back at the harshness of the word. “How could you? She ordered the murders of our people, Clarke. _Your_ mother. You. Me. She put us in chains! And you, you who were supposed to be our Queen, who were supposed to lead us out of here, you, you – you helped her! You _saved her life_! How could you?”

Raven’s practically shouting at this point, and Clarke looks on in horror as tears start to form in her friend’s eyes. “No, Raven, you don’t understand, I was doing what was best for our people, I – “

“Our people?” Raven’s voice is rising now, pitched higher, and Clarke is flinching back from the rage in her eyes. “You know nothing of our people! You, who were adopted by our Queen, raised as one of us, risen to lead, and yet despite everything you’ve been given, everything you owe the Skaikru, you turn your backs on us the moment it suits you. I see you’re not under guard anymore, Clarke. Being friends with the Empress of Rome does have its benefits.”

Clarke is reeling at the disgusted look Raven is giving her, as if she honestly believes that Clarke would betray her people, the only people she has ever known, for preferential treatment for herself. It’s not true – is it? That isn’t what she’s been doing. She takes a deep breath, tries again to explain. “No, Raven, we were going to be sent to the coliseum, to fight – I helped her and got us assigned here, to the palace. It’s not perfect, but at least our people aren’t dying in the fighting pits while I figure out what to do here. And I – I think I’ve got the Empress’s ear, now, I think I can negotiate with her. I think we can work something else out, I just need more time.”

“Don’t we all,” Raven chuckles darkly, and Clarke barely has time to wonder what she means before she adds, “You should have let that bitch die, Clarke. The only way she can help our people is by dying and getting out of our way. We can take that young pup she’s set up as heir.” The brunette cocks her head to the side, studying Clarke, and the look that Raven gets in her eyes is nothing short of terrifying. “You have her ear? Well, maybe you can still make this better. Kill her, Clarke. Poison her, stab her, we can work out some penance with the gods later if you can’t make it a fair fight, but take vengeance for our people and set us free. That’s the only way you make this better.”

Clarke is shaking her head in disbelief before Raven is even finished speaking. “No, Raven. It’s not the way. I can get us out of here without bloodshed. And Alexandria may have done awful things in the past, but I honestly think that I can persuade her to a favorable agreement for our people as allies of Rome. I know it’s a hard thing to swallow, but if I can keep our sisters safe, keep any more of them from dying, isn’t it worth trying?”

Raven has gone stock still. She stares at Clarke for several moments, her only movement the heaving of her shoulders as she breathes, her face as expressionless as a stone statue. Clarke is beginning to feel a twinge of hope, to think that maybe Raven is actually considering her words, but Raven’s next words crush that hope before it fully forms.

“Alexandria.” Clarke freezes, mind racing. Had she been so flustered that she’d actually said the Empress’s name to Raven? The brunette is advancing on her, fury blazing in her eyes, and Clarke has to force herself not to take a step backwards as Raven comes within striking distance. When Raven speaks, Clarke finds herself wishing the other Amazon had hit her instead. “You turn your back on our ways with this talk of peace, Clarke kom Skaikru. _Jus drein jus daun_ has always been our way.” She shakes herself, as if ridding herself of something. “I thought that I might make you into a Queen, but you aren’t even an Amazon. You’re no Queen of mine.”

Clarke watches in shock as Raven spins on her heel, grabs the sack, and begins making her way to the door. She’s walking better, but she’s still slow, so Clarke has enough time to register the bag slung over the brunette’s shoulder and to call out, “Where are you going?” before Raven makes it out the door.

The Amazon turns, the bitterness in her expression almost overshadowing the sadness there. “Your new master sold me to her cousin.” She laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Gave me away, actually. Like a horse, or a good knife. Just another favor for the Empress of Rome to bestow on her cronies.” She starts to leave again, but at the last second, turns and regards her former friend again. “Be careful, Clarke. That’s the kind of woman you chose.”

Clarke stares at the door frame for several moments after Raven leaves, trying to process what she’s just been told. When she finally leaves, it’s with clenched fists and one thought burning in her mind: she is going to kill the Empress of Rome.

 

\---------------------------

 

Raven tries desperately to hold in her sobs as she makes her way towards the palace gates, furious with herself for her reaction to the situation. Of all the things she hates, crying when she’s angry might top the list. She can’t believe she ever thought Clarke might make a good queen. She’d given the girl the benefit of the doubt when Abbinia first took her in, helped to raise and train her when she could. Amazons tended to group parent, so it wasn’t unusual for other members of the tribe to teach girls who weren’t their own daughters, particularly in an area where the Amazon in question was particularly strong. As one of the tribe’s best warriors, Raven had trained her fair share of young Amazons. But she’d taken a special interest in Clarke – partly because she was Abbinia’s daughter, and partly because she needed more help than the others, having not trained from birth like the rest of the younger Amazons. But part of it, too, was because despite not always having the skill of a warrior, Clarke had more spirit than any fighter Raven had ever seen.

The young blonde was indomitable, rising after every fall more determined, returning every blow with more ferocity. Raven could work with that. And from day one, it had been clear that Abbinia had been taken by the girl. There was always the chance that Clarke would be given the torque when the time came.

So Raven had tried, had worked with Clarke to make her the best warrior she could be. Had spent more time with her than perhaps any other Amazon, save Abbinia. And when the attack came, despite her own injury, she’d been proud to see Clarke fight for their people. Hopeful when she survived. She’d trusted that, with Raven’s help, Clarke could become the leader that they so desperately needed right now. But she was wrong.

She’d never been so angry about anything in her life. How could Abbinia’s daughter turn her back on her tribe like this? On her teachings? How could she stand there and talk about peace and alliances with the woman who ordered her mother’s murder and the slaughter of her people? And then to act like Raven didn’t care if more of them died. Of course she cared. But they were Amazons. They were warriors. And blood must have blood.

Wrapped up in her own thoughts, Raven barely notices the centurions at the gate until they step into her path, blocking her from the exit. “You know you’re not allowed outside palace grounds, Amazon,” the first one drones, bored. He’s Roman-born, squat, the type of man who might have been athletic in his younger years but had run to ruin as he aged.

She’s forced to stop before she collides with him, shifting her pack back irritably as it swings in front of her body at the sudden halt. Glaring up at the guard, she opens the pack and begins digging around in it. She catches movement out of the corner of her eye and manages to step back as the other guard charges in, grabbing for her arm. Her leg still isn’t quite right though, and it catches wrong, throwing her balance off and sending her spinning into the dirt, her pack sprawling out next to her.

Both men laugh, and the first guard, the one who’d initially confronted her, reaches down and snatches up her pack, tossing it to the other man. Raven, gasping with the pain of her leg caught underneath her, doesn’t try to fight as the guard then reaches for her, hauling her up by the arm. “Don’t try to resist, Amazon,” he leers, directing the second man to start looking through her things. “We’re just following orders, after all.”

Solid on her feet now, she jerks her arm away from him, disgusted. “I have orders, too, from the Empress herself. I’m to present myself to the Julii household.”

The guard scratches the day-old stubble of his chin. “I didn’t hear anything about an Amazon being transferred from the palace,” he says. Then, “Lucius, you hear anything about it?”

The second man has found Raven’s coin, is busy counting and stashing it into his pockets. It’s too much for Raven, who was already angry before this encounter and is now nothing short of incensed. She shoves the guard in front of her out of the way, reaching for the second man. “That’s mine,” she growls, snatching the pack and some of the coin back away from him. “And there are papers in it that show exactly what I’m saying, though it’s no wonder you can’t tell. I did always hear that dogs can’t read.”

The blow comes from behind, from the man she’d shoved before, and the force of it almost knocks her to her knees. Vision darkening, she manages to stay upright through sheer force of will as her head is pulled back by her hair and the guard leans over her, his breath hot on her face. “You’ll know your place, Amazon whore,” he spits, and Raven feels bile rise in her throat as flecks of it land on her cheeks.

She is twisting, preparing to bring a knee up into his groin, to try to fight her way out of the situation, when a female voice cuts through the air.

“Enough! Let her go immediately!” The voice is feminine and unfamiliar to her, though the note of command it holds rings true. The guards release her and step back, leaving Raven to stumble backwards in yet another attempt to keep her footing. She straightens as best she can, slinging her pack back over her shoulder and smoothing her tunic. Her arms are shaking, another side effect of the anger, and she closes her eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. When she has herself under control, she raises her gaze.

The guards are standing at attention in front of a woman. A beautiful woman. Nearly as tall as the men in front of her, the woman is a tangle of contradictions. Her lithe, muscular frame belies the statuesque way she carries herself. Raven does not know much about Roman nobility, but from what she has seen, their women are fragile, sheltered things. The woman in front of her might well make an Amazon, in another life. Her tanned skin is another anomaly; the Romans that Raven has seen so far have either been soldiers or milk pale, aside from the Empress herself. Still, the way this woman lifts her jaw, sharp as the blade of Raven’s belt knife, assures the warrior that the woman in front of her is indeed some sort of Roman noble.

Her haughty voice confirms it. “What do you think you’re doing?” she questions the men in front of her, eyes drifting over Raven in a cursory examination. “You dare hurt her, you will be sorry. Do you know who I am?”

The soldiers shake their heads, confusion mingling with fear in their dumb gazes. Hands on hips, the woman rolls her eyes in exasperation. “Of course it would be too much for my cousin to hire competent soldiers,” she mutters. Addressing the guards, she says, “My father is Claudius Scipio au Julii, _Legatus Legionis_ of the Eastern legion, uncle to the Empress. I am Senator Anya au Julli, cousin to the Empress and to her son the Caesar.” She pauses at this, and Raven remembers what Maya had mentioned when she told her about the adoption ceremony, how the new heir was the son of the Empress’s cousin. This woman must be his mother.  

The guards are paling rapidly, understanding the power of the woman they have just offended, if not yet their transgression. “And you,” the woman continues, gesturing off to the side, “Have been manhandling my property.”

Raven bristles as she realizes that Anya means her. She draws herself up to her full height, ready to protest, but Anya is already turning away. “My cousin will hear of this,” she assures the guards, who are all but prostrating themselves in apology. “Amazon, come.”

Damned if Raven is going to heel like a dog at the feet of her master. The warrior holds her ground for a moment, forcing the woman to look over her shoulder at her when she realizes the Amazon is not following. Sable eyes narrow as they take her in, and Anya growls, “You can come with me now, or you can stay here with them.” She looks pointedly at the guards, who glare back at Raven with eyes full of promise.

Sighing, she follows the woman away, past the guards, not missing the way Anya starts walking again just before Raven reaches her, keeping the Amazon a step behind. They are several yards away when they reach a pair of horses tied up. “We will have to ride, Amazon,” she tells Raven. As if she can see the hope that ignites in Raven’s eyes, she adds, “Do not try to run. I shall be obligated to find you, and whip you, and I do not wish to do that.”

It’s a short ride to the Julii estate, which is just outside the city proper. They dismount as a rush of servants come to greet them, taking the horses and Anya’s travelling cloak from her shoulders.   “This is the main Roman estate,” Anya explains as Raven follows her past an open courtyard and into a lush, outdoor lounge area with long couches clustered around light braziers. “There is another, smaller set of apartments in the center of the city. You and I will likely travel back and forth among them.”

She turns to face Raven, eyes running up and down the length of her in a much more detailed examination than the one she’d given the Amazon earlier. Raven stares back with the same frankness, aware that she shouldn’t be doing so but unable to hold back her curiosity about this woman who throws her power around so effortlessly.   She feels raw, exposed under Anya’s scrutinizing gaze, vaguely fearing that Anya is going to open her mouth at any moment to check the health of her teeth. She does not know how Romans treat slaves, for the most part. The Empress was more lax than she’d been given to expect, allowing her “servants” free reign of the palace grounds and general governance over their own leisure time, so long as the laws were followed and the work was done. But Raven and the other Amazons had lived in the shadow of Rome for a long time, and she knew that this was rare. Most Roman slaves were ignored at best and willfully mistreated at worst. And here, away from her sisters, away from her weapons and her army, Raven was more or less at the mercy of this woman and her husband. And so far, Anya hadn’t given her much to go on besides a general disdain for Raven’s existence.

Anya seems satisfied, gesturing for the ewer of water on the table next to them. “A cup, Amazon,” she commands, and then, with another quick once-over, “You may fill one for yourself, as well. Do you have a name?”

Debating, Raven decides there is no benefit in refusing the order. She reaches for the ewer, filling two cups and passing one to Anya before taking one for herself. She will play the game for now. “My name is Raven, _domina_ ,” she answers, waiting for Anya to take a sip of the water before taking one herself. Anya lifts one perfectly sculpted eyebrow, and Raven feels a surge of satisfaction. Let the pretty noble be surprised.

They drink for a moment in silence, and then, “Those guards. Did they… hurt you, earlier?”

Raven’s eyes dart up, searching for the other woman’s, wondering if she’s imagining the concern in her tone. The last thing she expects after being examined like livestock is compassion. She decides she must be hearing things. “As if two Roman door guards could take down an Amazon warrior,” she snorts in derision.

The noble’s face twitches, almost as if wants to smile. She nods, then raises an arm, beckoning. A male servant, handsome and built like a bodyguard, steps forward. “Tristan, show Raven to her quarters and brief her on her duties here,” she instructs. To Raven, she adds, “I’ll summon you when I have need.”

The Amazon eyes the cup in her hands uncertainly, not sure if she should take it with her or leave it here. Anya notices, plucks the cup out of her hands and places it back on the table. Raven nods once in thanks before she catches herself. She follows Tristan from the room before she can think anything more of it.

 

\-------------------------------

  

It’s late afternoon and Lexa is poring over a map of her northern Empire, trying to think out the possible routes that the Iceni might take should they decide to march on Rome. They’re a small enough force that she thinks it’s more likely that they’ll harry the northern settlements first before making their way down through Londinium, if they get that far. She will ensure they don’t make it to Rome itself.

She glances up at the candles burning down a table away, alarmed to realize how much time has passed. She’s invited Costia to her chambers this afternoon, knowing that they need to have a conversation after what happened with Clarke. She hasn’t seen either woman since the adoption ceremony, having been tied up with the demands of her position.   Still, she knows things with Costia are over. Before Clarke had kissed her, she’d been resigning herself to a life of meaningless encounters, the one constant being a good woman who loved her and would treat her well. And if Lexa couldn’t quite bring herself to love Costia back the way she should be loved, at least she could treat her well in return. She could make Costia happy.

But after the other night, the young Empress was forced to admit that she could never be happy with Costia. Lexa had kissed dozens of women, maybe more, and it had always been pleasant, even sensual… but she’d never felt anything like she had with Clarke. When Lexa was younger, she had been playing on the banks of the Tiber with Anya, in a place where the ground rose up and the river deepened, and the bravest of the local children would dive from the cliff above down into the waters. The first time Lexa had jumped, she’d been seven and had snuck away from Anya’s watchful eye to clamber up the back of the overhang, racing because she knew that Anya would come after her as soon as she noticed her gone. She’d cleared the other kids away from the cliff’s edge with a determined stare and gone straight to the jumping point. She’d closed her eyes and listened to the swell of the water, felt the breeze rustle the loose tendrils of hair near her face, taken a moment to embrace the utter recklessness of what she was about to do. And then she’d heard Anya screaming and jumped feet first off the cliff as fast as she could before her cousin caught up to her and skinned her alive.

At first, she’d felt mostly terror, the wind whipping past her as she hurtled toward the water below, certain that the water would turn out to be solid instead by some twist of chance, that she’d crush herself against it and sink into oblivion. But then she had made contact, entered the river with a splash and a release, and the welcoming rush of the river enveloped her, tumbling her end over end as she plunged towards the bottom. And instead of being scared, it had felt exhilarating, freeing. She’d felt the will to live surge within her, felt her strength rise as she righted herself and shot towards the surface, blood thrumming with victory and vivacity. She’d felt invincible that day.

And kissing Clarke, she’d felt that way. Felt the fear and the excitement, the way her heart bruised the inside of her ribcage with its beating. Clarke had left Lexa wrong-footed since the moment she arrived, had made her feel like a newborn foal, stumbling and raw. But kissing her… she’d felt invulnerable.

She knows it is unlikely to happen again. Clarke might have opened the door for a good working relationship, perhaps even a friendship. But too much had happened between their people, at Lexa’s own orders, for their relationship to progress further than that.

“Empress?” It’s Titus, standing tall and disapproving in front of Costia and a kitchen girl with a jug of wine and two golden goblets. Lexa recognizes the kitchen girl with a frown, and Titus mistakes it for displeasure. “Shall I send the Junia away, Empress? Would you like to be alone?”

Lexa doesn’t miss how Costia’s shoulders slump at that, and her heart aches at the uncertainty in the other woman’s eyes when they find her own. “No, no, see her in, Titus. I’ve asked for her to come.”

Despite the welcome, Costia’s nervousness does not seem to fade even when they are alone. Her hands tremble slightly when she reaches for the wine, pouring first a glass for Lexa and then one for herself. She barely sips it, eyeing Lexa over the brim, her mind clearly racing. Lexa doesn’t know what to say to her.

After a moment, Costia reaches for Lexa’s hand, entwining her own sea-browned fingers with Lexa’s. She pulls the Empress closer, laying her head on Lexa’s shoulder, the two of them sitting next to each other in a tension previously foreign to their relationship.

They stay that way for several moments as Lexa tries to work up the courage to let her go, to throw away the only certainty she’s had for something she doubts will ever come to fruition. Costia has been her only lover who has really seen the woman underneath the Empress. Lexa will miss this, the feeling of being herself.

It’s enough. The avoidance of a thing does not negate its existence. She is a warrior, and an Empress, used to making difficult decisions for the good of her people. She will make one for her own good, this time. “Costia, I…”

“Shh,” Costia tells her, handing her a glass of wine. “I know. It’s the Amazon, isn’t it?” Lexa looks at her, wide-eyed, unaware she’d been so obvious. Costia’s smiles sweetly, tears shining at the backs of her light brown eyes. “I know you, Alexandria. We’ve been doing this for years now.” Lexa    reaches for her, concerned, but Costia shakes her head and pulls her arm away. She takes a deep breath, composes herself. “I know what it looks like when a woman is in love.”

Ashamed, Lexa looks down at her lap, heat flaming in her cheeks. It had started out as only sex, but she’d known somewhere along the journey that Costia had fallen in love with her. She’d justified continuing the relationship by theorizing that maybe, one day, she would feel the same. Or at least make the Junia woman a good life. She hadn’t wanted to hurt her. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, and feels a finger braced under her chin, lifting it.

The tears are falling now, streaming down Costia’s beautiful face as she gives Lexa a watery smile. “I love you, Alexandria au Augustus. I know you don’t feel the same way and I accept it. And if this is what you want, then I’ll accept that, too. Just… be careful. The Amazons have no reason to love Rome… or you.”

Lexa flinches back at the reminder, Costia’s voice an echo of her own thoughts these past few weeks. She nods her agreement. “I will.” She lifts her glass of wine, takes a melancholy sip. “For what it’s worth, I do care about you, you know.”

Costia lifts Lexa’s hand to her mouth, kisses her knuckles gently. “I know.” For a moment Lexa almost regrets it, looking into those eyes. She almost thinks that she should give their relationship another chance, should try again to bet on the sure thing, but Clarke’s azure gaze flashes in her memory again and she knows that she is making the right choice.

“To us, and what we have been to each other,” she toasts, raising her goblet to the other woman.

Costia’s smile is a little brighter this time. “To us,” she agrees, and clinks their goblets together.

They have finished that bottle and Costia has ordered another by the time they finally part ways, both feeling a bit muddled from the alcohol. Costia brushes a kiss across her temple on the way out and Lexa manages to fight the impulse to pull the other woman down to her. She knows it will be a temporary comfort only. She knows there is no cure for the longing she has now.

She’s just lain down to try to sleep it off when the door to her chambers bangs open and Clarke kom Skaikru charges through it, Alexandria’s name on her lips, a frustrated Titus chasing after her with his hand on his sword.

“Enough,” Lexa bellows when the Praetorian moves to draw the weapon. “Leave us.” Titus looks as if he will protest, but Lexa lifts her chin in the manner of the Empress and he acquiesces with ill grace.

The clap of the door echoes around the chamber as it closes behind her, and Lexa rubs the bridge of her nose, trying to sober herself for whatever is to come. “Clarke,” she greets, lifting her gaze to survey the obviously angry woman in front of her. Gods, she looks like some avenging battlefield goddess, standing tall and strong and radiating with beautiful fury. “Why are you here?”

 

\----------------------------

 

Clarke passes Costia au Junia on the way to the Empress’s chambers. Costia au gods-damned Junia, who as far as she knows is still sleeping with the woman Clarke herself was just kissing three days past. And if the Junia seems saddened and a little drunk, Clarke does not note it. There is a beast inside her chest, raging to claw its way out. With effort, she redirects her anger to the real enemy here. She will deal with the Junia later. For now, Alexandria au Augustus is her target.

Titus doesn’t stand a chance at stopping her as she rages past him into the Empress’s chambers, ignoring his commands to halt and his threatening grab for his sword. She hardly hears it when Alexandria orders him out, advancing on the other woman with murder in her eyes. She barely registers Alexandria’s question before she is upon the Roman, knife at her throat, breath heaving through Clarke’s body like a summer storm.

The Empress stills, aware of the blade’s edge on her skin. She makes no attempt to push Clarke away or to draw the blade that Clarke knows Alexandria keeps hidden on her thigh. She does not look away from Clarke’s gaze as she reads the fury there, reads the anguish. And when jade eyes blink once, twice, in understanding, Clarke knows that Alexandria knows exactly why she’s here.

“I’m sorry, Clarke.” It’s barely a whisper, barely a sound above the roar of Clarke’s own anger, of the fire in her blood.

“You sold Raven,” she says, and the sound that comes out is low and feral. “You sold my best friend.” Alexandria swallows, and then nods with her eyes the way she does when she’s trying to hide her emotions. Clarke can see it, though, can see the pleading and the regret there. Frustrated, she jerks the knife away, turns and hurls it across the room. “How could you?”

She didn’t expect the betrayal she feels. She’d thought she’d left herself at least partially protected against this, thought she’d kept enough of her sense not to completely trust the Empress in front of her. Thought, even after she’d kissed her, that she’d remember whom Alexandria au Augustus truly was. “You promised me,” she says, keeping her back turned. “You promised me you would take care of them. That they’d stay here, in the palace.”

The accusation hangs heavy in the air between them, and then Clarke feels the air warm around her as Alexandria approaches, close enough to touch. She can smell the wine on the other woman’s breath, remembers the drunkenness of the Junia. Closes her eyes against the thought of them kissing, touching, coupling here in this room only hours before.

“She’s been meeting with the other Amazons in secret, Clarke,” Alexandria says quietly, moisture from her breath ghosting over the skin of Clarke’s shoulder where her tunic leaves it bare. “Planning a revolt. I know she’s had contact from the outside, but not with whom.”

Clarke whirls, the injustice of the accusation rising within her. It’s not true. It can’t be. Raven wouldn’t keep something like this a secret from her – she’s their Queen. But even as she thinks it, doubts start to seep in. She hadn’t seen much of her sisters since entering the palace, but that doesn’t mean they couldn’t have seen each other. She’s barely been paying attention, aside from infirmary visits, too focused on her own tasks and agenda to worry about what they might be thinking. She’s been working for them, trying to win the trust of the Empress and maybe even a potential alliance, but she hasn’t communicated that to anyone. Not even Raven. And after Raven had heard about her saving Alexandria’s life two weeks before… it would have been easy to come to the conclusion that Clarke did not truly care for her people. That their Queen had chosen power in an empire over fighting for a broken queendom.

Sorrow washes over her as she realizes that Raven was right. Not about her abandoning their ways, but at least in part about her lack of leadership. She hasn’t done her duty to her people. “She would have told me,” she protests weakly, hating the sympathy in Alexandria’s eyes when she shakes her head.

“I’m afraid my presence may have caused you to lose the trust of your people, Clarke kom Skaikru. And for this, I am sorry as well.” Alexandria links long arms behind her back, begins pacing. Clarke forces herself not to see the way Alexandria’s tunic is draping, scrunched as if the woman has been lying down. “I can’t leave Raven here to stir unrest amongst your people. I sent her to Anya because my cousin is a good mistress, gentle and forgiving. And because I believe that she and Raven will find kindred spirits in each other. Anya is… lonely, without her son, and her husband Ryder is kind but inattentive. She will benefit from some companionship, especially from a woman with a mind as active as Raven’s.”

She stops again, faces Clarke. “I have been on battlefields my entire life, Clarke. I have seen injuries such as the one Raven kom Skaikru has suffered. If she cannot keep her body active, she will need to engage the mind. I know she is your friend, and I would not separate you without need. But I believe this arrangement will benefit her as well.”

Clarke gapes at her. She didn’t expect an answer like this, didn’t expect that Alexandria would have actually put thought into Raven’s situation, would have actually cared about the well-being of someone who was actively conspiring against her in her own home. Would have cared how Clarke might feel about her being sent away. Grasping for the cinders of her nearly-extinguished ire, Clarke pulls together her last defense. “Why didn’t you tell me? I could have talked to her, tried to reason with her. What good is an Ambassador if you don’t ask them to mediate for you?”

Alexandria glances to the side, avoiding her eyes, and just like that, Clarke understands. The anger comes flooding back. “You didn’t trust me,” she gasps, ignoring the fact that only minutes ago, she was berating herself for trusting the Empress too much. “You didn’t trust me to negotiate for you. You thought I might be with them.”

Alexandria takes a step forward, reaches for her, but Clarke shrugs back. “Clarke –“ the other woman tries, but Clarke is on a rampage.

“I made that deal with you in the cell you _locked me in_ to protect my people. And I’ve held up my end of the bargain in every conceivable way. I saved your life, I _took care of you_ , I’ve translated and healed and scribed and done everything you asked of me, and this one time I have the chance to protect one of my own you don’t even think to consult me? Really?”

“I do trust you, Clarke,” Alexandria is protesting, but the Amazon is working herself up again.

“Of all the gods-damned foolish things, Alexandria, not filling me in on this is high on the list. Don’t you think I could have stopped this? Don’t you think I deserved the chance?” She stops, looking to Alexandria for an explanation, turns to find the other woman regarding her with pleading eyes.

“I didn’t want you to have to make that decision, Clarke,” the brunette says, her hands rising at her sides. Clarke watches as she clenches them into fists to keep them from moving. “I didn’t want you to have to be in the middle.”

The Amazon shakes her head in disbelief. “Then why did you put me in the middle?” She asks incredulously, almost shouting this time. “Why did you make me ambassador if you didn’t want me in the middle?”

Alexandria is quiet for a long moment, the clench of her jaw the only indication that she’s heard Clarke’s words. They stare at each other, the Empress’s shoulders set stubbornly in a line, steady in the face of Clarke’s volatile ire. “I see the leader you can be, Clarke,” she says, finally. “But I will not place you in a situation where you must choose between your people and your promises. Not until I know which way you will choose.”

It makes total sense and none at the same time, Clarke wanting to understand and yet needing the anger to keep her going. She snarls, and in a last desperate attempt, launches herself at Alexandria, who stands unmoving in the face of the onslaught. “Gods damn you,” Clarke growls, and tackles Alexandria backwards onto the table behind them, feeling the Empress brace herself against the fall with her arms, leaving Clarke to smash their lips together in a heated kiss.

Where their first kiss was soft, exploratory and gentle and patient, this one is crushing, full of lust and leftover frustration. It quickly dissolves into a battle for dominance, Alexandria gasping when Clarke’s tongue slips inside and grazes the roof of her mouth, Alexandria gripping underneath Clarke’s ass and lifting her up, turning them so that it’s Clarke who’s sitting on the table, Alexandria settled squarely between her thighs. Clarke nips her in retribution, gratified to hear the lust-filled growl that rumbles up from Alexandria’s throat at the action. She can taste the wine on the other woman’s tongue now, a heady mix, tangy somehow, and her mind leaves her completely as Alexandria starts to trail wet, hot kisses down Clarke’s neck, hands clutching the Amazon to her as if afraid she’ll disappear. They are rough, hurried, and heat begins to pool low in her stomach, then lower still, and Clarke reaches for the clasp of the Empress’s tunic, desperate.

Cool air hits her body as Alexandria reels away, chest heaving with the effort of taking in oxygen after being so long deprived. “We can’t – not like this –“ she gasps out, staggering a few steps away.

Humiliation spreads icy tendrils under her skin, and she gathers herself quickly to go. How could she have let this happen again? “Of course,” she snaps, “Of course not. You have your Junia. I should have known better.”

She doesn’t make it far towards the door before she feels Alexandria’s arm around her bicep, the grip gentle but firm. “No,” the Empress says, speaking to Clarke’s back. “No, I don’t. I don’t want Costia. I want you, just – not like this.” Hesitantly, Clarke turns back around. She really should just keep going, should ignore the hope that flares inside her at Alexandria’s words. What would Raven say if she knew about any of this? She’s never going to win her people back if she keeps falling into those eyes. She steels her resolve.

“I saw her leaving, _Empress_. She was clearly drunk, and so are you, and I know you Romans think all Amazons are barbarians but I’m not stupid, Alexandria.”

The brunette is looking at her with wide eyes, and even with her blown pupils they’re the greenest things Clarke has ever seen. She hates herself for noticing that now.   “Clarke,” Alexandria says again, and Clarke hates herself all over for the way it makes her feel to hear her name rolling off that tongue, like she’s drinking a glass of spiced wine and it’s warming up everything inside her on the way down.   “We didn’t sleep together. I called her here, and I ended it.” Uncertainty floods her gaze, and Clarke finds herself leaning forward, reaching out to brush her hand across Alexandria’s temple, comforting. “I know you and I are… problematic,” Alexandria continues, her words coming out more slowly than before. “But I wanted the possibility to remain. In case you…” She cuts off abruptly and looks over Clarke’s shoulder, frowning.

Clarke turns, looks into the darkness beyond the candlelight, but sees nothing. When she turns back, the Empress is pacing away, back towards the inner sanctum of her bedchamber. Unsure of what to do, Clarke follows. “Alexandria?” she asks hesitantly when she enters and sees the Empress sitting on her bed, her gaze slightly unfocused.

“I… feel strange,” Alexandria admits, and this time she’s slurring, leaning over to rest her head on the wide embroidered pillows at the head of the bed. It’s odd, but Clarke shrugs it off as the alcohol finally hitting her system until she reaches the Empress’s side and realizes that her pupils are still enlarged, moments after their near-sexual encounter. She would have expected them to shrink back by now.

“Alexandria?” she asks, further alarmed when the woman turns her head only slightly in response to the question. “Alexandria, can you feel this?” She digs her fingernails into the Empress’s palm, but is awarded with no reaction. She can see the muscles around the Empress’s mouth strain, see her trying to form a word in the negative, but no sounds emanate from the other woman’s mouth. Her eyes remain alert, though, if erratic. So she can think, but she can’t move. Not poison, then. Drugs.

There’s a whisper of sound behind her, barely anything, but Clarke recognizes the scuff of leather on stone. She remembers Alexandria glancing over her shoulder earlier, searching for some movement in the shadows. She reaches up underneath Alexandria’s tunic until she feels the telltale hint of metal beneath her fingers. “Let me just test the movement in your legs, Empress,” she says aloud, pitching her voice to echo in the quiet room.

Another sound, another whisper, and she turns to find a man standing just feet behind her, clad in the plain brown tunic of a servant. She doesn’t recognize him, but then again she wouldn’t, not knowing all the servants in the _Domus Augustana_. Even if she did, she doubts she would have remembered a man such as this: slight, with mousy brown hair and a nondescript expression. He could have been a foot soldier or a tax collector or a stablehand, any number of ordinary things. But the knife he holds is not ordinary, nor is the gleam along its dripping edge.

More poison. He doesn’t seem surprised to see her, and says nothing aside from giving her a slow, cold smile before pulling another knife from his belt. One for each of them.

She feels the slightest brush of fingers on her hip, likely the only warning that Alexandria is able to give in her paralyzed state. Even that would have taken herculean effort on the Empress’s part. Perhaps she is asking Clarke to defend her. Perhaps she is asking her to run. Either way, Clarke’s decision was made the moment she realized what was going on.

With a whispered prayer to Diana, goddess of the hunt, she hurls Alexandria’s thigh knife towards the assassin. Metal clangs on stone as his own daggers falls to the ground beside him, unused. His body joins them a moment later, the knife Clarke threw embedded deeply in his throat.


	13. XIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hoo boy, this guy was a long time coming. So, so sorry for that. Life (and by life I mean work) has been insane lately. Hopefully it will let up and I won't make you guys wait six weeks for another chapter, but I am learning not to make promises. I'll try to be good about giving updates on Tumblr so you'll have some idea of what's going on! Thanks for sticking with it. 
> 
> Also, naming chapters is the worst, so I'm switching to Roman numerals. It's appropriate, right?

“Find Aden. Find my son.” They’re the first words she’s able to grit out once she regains the ability to control her vocal cords, and Alexandria au Augustus is not pleased that no one thought to send for him before she had to give the order herself. She knows she has been the sole ruler in Rome for some time, but her Guard _must_ learn to think of the heir. “Secure him and bring him to me.”

It’s been moments only. The drugs have worn off quicker than she expected, but the effects have left her drained and weakened. Her guards have only just arrived, having been summoned by Clarke once the Amazon had finished prodding at her to make sure there was nothing else to be done for her condition. She’d had to give some credit to Octavia for not jumping the blonde healer the instant she came in and saw Clarke hovering over the Empress’s prone, unmoving body. Apparently Clarke has gained some good will even amongst her Praetorians.

The movement returning to her limbs is like a thousand tiny insects biting her at once, all over, but Lexa evades Clarke’s searching gaze and her reaching hands as she wills herself into a sitting position. She cannot be coddled at the moment, cannot allow any further appearance of weakness. Her position has been compromised enough for one day. And, beneath that, the thought of what it might mean that the Amazon has just saved her life for the second time in as many weeks nags at her. She will have to come back to it – to _Clarke_ – later.

The Empire comes first. The movements are stiff, her muscles still sluggish and more than a little numb, but she manages to stand without assistance. Manages to brace herself with the backs of her calves against the bed frame and her arms behind her back, feet planted wide. Grits her teeth and reminds her legs firmly that Roman Empresses _do not sway_. “Who did this?”

The question is directed at Indra, who is standing with Octavia, Lincoln, and Gustus, examining the body of the assassin for clues as to his identity. None have commented on Clarke’s presence in her bedchamber, but she can see the curiosity swimming in her general’s eyes. Fortunately, Indra has been with her long enough to know when to leave well enough alone. The older woman does not answer for a long moment, long enough that an impatient snarl escapes the Empress’s lips. She knows their silence means ignorance. “Lock down the palace,” she commands, taking care not to move forward. She isn’t sure her legs will hold just yet. “No one is allowed in or out until I give the order. I will have the person responsible for this found and executed.”

She is aware, vaguely, that she is using the tone of the Commander, not the Empress. The tone she’s used countless times on countless battlefields, to command countless legions. To disobey the Commander is death. Octavia’s eyes are round as discs, but she jumps up immediately, sharing a glance with Indra as they sweep out of the room together. The former _Primus’s_ shouts thunder down the halls long after they’ve left. Lexa does not regret the lack of secrecy. She has neither the patience nor the luxury of keeping this latest attempt on her life quiet. She _will_ know who is behind this latest threat to her rule.

“Empress.” It’s Gustus, who has apparently decided to brave her mood in the name of doing his duty. “Clarke has given her account of what happened, but it would be helpful to hear your version, as well. We have to determine the source of the poison.”

She shakes her head. “I heard what she told you. You’ll only have the same story again from me.” She feels more than sees Clarke straighten beside her at the implicit expression of support. “As for the drug, unless it was very slow acting, the only things I’ve had recently were wine and some small plates from the kitchen. I don’t believe I have been stabbed with anything that could have been coated with a paralytic, though –“

A sidelong glance at Clarke for confirmation. The Amazon picks up the narrative quickly enough. “I inspected the Empress thoroughly once the danger had passed. I found no evidence of any puncture wound. Whatever was used, it was most likely ingested.”

Leather scuffs on marble as Gustus paces over to the study where Lexa and Costia had been drinking hours before. Lexa cannot see the area from where she stands in the inner chamber of her suite, but she can hear Gustus muttering as he walks. “You took your meal at your usual place, Empress?” His question is muffled through the wall, but the confusion in it is clear.

Her stomach sinks. She weighs the risk of falling in front of Clarke, decides it wouldn’t be worse than the myriad other ways she’s been debased in front of the Amazon, and steps away from the safety of her position in order to follow him into the other room, Lincoln and Clarke close behind. “Yes. Of course.”

His grim aspect confirms her suspicions. “It’s been cleared already.” Then, when she makes no reply, “Do you know who took it away?”

Ah. Well, she would have known, had she not been heatedly groping her Amazonian ambassador in the moments directly leading up to the attack. She avoids looking at Clarke, aware from the heat in her cheeks that she is blushing. Jupiter help her, she’s _blushing_. She struggles to regain her composure, to remember that she is not some peasant girl caught in the throes of a first romance. She is the Empress of Rome, and she is investigating an assassination attempt with the head of her household guard. She goes for nonchalance. “I rarely pay attention to the activities of servants, Gustus. I was engaged in discussion with the Skaikru ambassador at the time.”

She sees instantly that it doesn’t work. His politely curious expression becomes _much_ less polite, surprise and amusement warring across his features as he glances back and forth between her and Clarke. She clears her throat to remind him of the seriousness of the situation. Behind him, Lincoln is standing stoically quiet, facing the door, by all appearances not listening at all. But Lexa can see the way the tips of his ears pink up at the answer, and she cringes at her own transparency.

Clarke saves her. “I had a thought about the situation with the Iceni that I wanted to bring to the Empress. We were discussing it in detail before she fell ill. I’m sorry to say we had our backs to the sitting area.” She points at the map table as if to emphasize her words.

Thank the gods. Gustus hardly looks like he believes her, but Lexa is just glad to have a reasonable explanation for why she’d been so lax in her own personal security. She’s sure she’ll receive a long lecture on it from the burly man later, but just now she’d rather feel a righteous anger at the attempt on her life. Being scolded like a youngling doesn’t fit with her plan.

She almost audibly sighs in relief when he continues his interrogation without focusing on the matter further. “Who’s had access to your chambers in the past several hours?”

It’s hardly a short list. She shrugs. “You know it’s always a _circense_ in here, Gustus. Laundresses, kitchen servants, maidservants, the Praetorians, Costia, Clarke –“

“Costia?” He cuts her off with a sharp note. “The Junia was here?”

She narrows her eyes. “If this is about her father again –“ she begins, warning, but he barrels past her and gestures at Lincoln. “Find me Costia au Junia, _now_.”

“Gustus, we were both drinking the wine,” she tries again. “If it was drugged, she’ll be lying insensible somewhere as well.”

“Then we’ll find her lying insensible,” he answers, an edge of steel in his normally gentle voice. “And any portion of that meal could have had the drug. It could be on food that only you ate, or perhaps she built up an immunity to the drug, or it could even have been in your goblet, but not hers. There is no way to know without the evidence here.”

As much as she doesn’t want to, Lexa is forced to consider the possibility. She closes her eyes against the twisting in her gut, the _knowing_ that if Gustus is right, if Costia was involved... she’s been so blind. She let herself relax, let herself find comfort in the idea that she could be loved, after all. That someone could love both halves of her, both Alexandria _and_ Lexa. Even if she hadn’t been able to reciprocate the feelings, Costia would always be special to her. Unless she’d been wrong, and the Junia really was just the daughter of a traitor seeking revenge for her father.

She had believed Costia when she said she loved her. Had it really been a ruse all along? Or had it been the wine that was drugged, and Costia is lying somewhere helpless too? She hates herself for the hope that flares in her chest at the thought.

Lincoln is hesitating in the doorway, eyes flicking back and forth between her and Gustus, having sensed the disagreement between them. Gustus glares at him, displeased at the delay. She nods. “Find her.”

She turns Gustus’s words over in her mind again, thinking, and then adds, “Wait.” Lincoln pauses just outside the door, glancing over his shoulder for an amendment to his orders. She looks to Clarke, who raises an eyebrow at her calculating stare. “Your Amazon, the dark-haired one. Not Raven. Small, pale, with freckles. Was injured when she came in but recovered. She’s been assigned to the kitchens recently, it seems. She brought the wine. What was her name?”

Clarke spreads her arms, shaking her head. “That could be any number of my people, Empress. But I doubt any of them were involved. Even if - ”

Lexa cuts her off, turning back to Lincoln. “The girl I just described. Have her found and brought to me as well. Luna will know which one she is.”

He’s gone a moment later, leaving her alone with Clarke and Gustus. Clarke reaches for her arm, apparently unconcerned by being so familiar with the Empress in Gustus’s presence. She supposes that it doesn’t matter. Gustus seems to already be well aware of this – _thing_ – they have between them, although if he can put a name to it he’ll be far better off than she herself is at the moment. She gives Clarke her full attention, and the Amazon fixes her with an intense gaze, fingers pressing into her skin. “Alexandria, you can’t think my people had anything to do with this.”

Green eyes dart down to the hand on her arm, up to the shoulders of the woman standing before her, hunched and earnest. Up to the azure eyes seeking her own. She knows what Clarke wants from her. The Amazon has lost so many of her people, so much of her culture already. She is brimming with the need to save every single life left in her care. She will not bear another loss lightly. Lexa knows this, can see it in the way Clarke lifts her head to make sure their eyes connect exactly, can feel the Amazon’s anxiety seeping through her skin from where they are connected.

But she has her own people to care for, and the Empire is at stake. Aden is as yet untested, and too young to rule alone. He would be subject to the whims of the patricians, likely to be used by one faction or another his entire life if he’s forced to take the throne before his spine is settled. Anya would help, of course, but Lexa doubts that she will be able to stem the tide on her own. No, Rome still needs its Empress, and that means she has to consider every angle, has to do everything in her power to find and neutralize the threat to her life. She keeps her voice steady, but gentle. “I must investigate every possibility, Clarke.” A pause, and then, “Be grateful that your friend Raven is no longer in the palace. I would likely have started with her.”

A scowl runs across the Amazon’s features and she releases Lexa’s arm. The reminder was intentional – a way to break the intimacy between them and allow Lexa to keep a clear mind throughout the investigation – but her chest gives an unpleasant twist at the look on Clarke’s face all the same. It’s clear that in the excitement, she had stopped thinking about Raven and what Lexa did to the wounded warrior. She remembers now.

It’s for the best, the Empress tells herself as she turns to regard Gustus. Clarke is not above consideration for this, after all, unlikely though her involvement seems. The woman _was_ present at both attempts on her life. She’d interfered both times, had been the only reason Lexa survived, and she knows that makes it far less likely that the Amazon is actually trying to kill her. Still, there are reasons other than assassination to want to be close to the Empress of Rome. Lexa does not think her goal would be personal power, but Clarke could be trying to gain favor to better advocate for her people. It would be a shrewd move. And, if anything, Costia is proof that Lexa is more susceptible to romancing than she might have thought.

Gustus shifts under the scrutiny. “It would probably be wise to question the entire kitchen staff,” he breaks in, rending the silence. “Perhaps someone saw something that can be of use.”

The Empress nods. It’s a good suggestion. “See it done. And find out who cleared that table.”

He sketches a slight bow. “Is there anything else?”

She pauses for a moment. She’s missing something, but can’t remember what it might be. Again, Clarke saves her, tone clipped as she rejoins the conversation.

“Titus. He was guarding the door when I came in. Unless the assassin was already here…?”

Gustus’s mouth forms into a thin line of disapproval. No doubt he’s thinking of all the ways to punish the incompetent Praetorian who did not halt this second attempt on his Empress’s life. “Unconscious, but alive,” he growls. “Took a blow to the back of the head. He will be dealt with when he wakes.”

It’s enough for now. Exhaustion is starting to creep into Lexa’s bones, and she is still shaking off the effects of the drugs and the wine, mind still in a fog. She absorbs the information and dismisses him with instructions to send Aden in if the boy is waiting. Clarke moves to leave as well, features still strained, but Lexa stops her with a hand gently circling her wrist. The blonde turns to her, impatience warring with curiosity in her eyes.

She speaks quickly, without thought. “You saved me again,” she says, so quiet she wonders if the words even made it past her lips.

Clarke just watches her, waits for her to say something else. Then Aden is in the room, coming to an abrupt halt as he sees them looking at each other, still wrist in hand. Lexa notes with relief that he seems unharmed, blonde hair rumpled as if he had been awakened by her summons. “Clarke of the Skaikru,” he greets with a cautious dip of the head. Then a deeper bow, a pause, and, “Mother.”

Lexa swallows down the words she wants to say. There is so much for them to discuss, so much left unspoken. She does not want Clarke to go. She does not want to be alone tonight.

But they are still undefined, and there is still much to be done. She needs to see Aden, to explain what happened here today. She must use this moment to teach him the dangers of ruling an Empire while protecting him from those same dangers as much as she can. There may not be as much time as she’d hoped before Aden has to take her throne, and she needs him to be as ready as possible.

So she releases Clarke’s wrist and steps back, willing the blonde to understand how little she wants to do so. “Thank you for your aid today, Clarke,” she tells her, wincing internally at the formality of her words. She tries for more warmth. “You should get some sleep. Please, come and see me in the morning.” She risks a glance at Clarke’s face, trying to let her own wanting show in her expression. “There is still much for us to go over.”

Clarke gives her the barest of smiles as she leaves, but it sends a spike of longing through her all the same.

 

\------------------------------

 

They don’t find Costia. They divert soldiers from the troops currently stationed in Rome to add to the household guard for the search, but the Junia has vanished without a trace. Her rooms in the palace have been left almost intact, though her travel cloak and a couple of sets of clothing are missing, according to her maidservant. She’s fled.

They tell her in the morning, after Lexa has spent a sleepless night tossing and turning alone in her bed. She dreams of being buried alive, trapped underneath a mountain of dirt and rock, unable to move or to breathe. Unable to fight or to scream. She’s sitting in the smallest of the rooms she uses for meetings, half-listening as Gustus makes his report. Marcus sits across the table from her, growing visibly more frustrated as her _Comes Domesticorum_ goes on.

They are searching every building in the city, questioning anyone with ties to the Junia for any clues as to her possible whereabouts. There are soldiers sweeping the woods around Rome, hoping to find some hint of the Junia. They are doing everything they can. They will let her know as soon as there is more information.

It comes as if through a long tunnel, ringing and reverberating in her mind until the sound all melds together into one long string of noise. Costia betrayed her. Costia, who did not love her, after all. Costia, who lied from the very beginning. Costia, who smelled of salt and olives and laughed like the strum of a lyre, who gazed at Lexa with such softness and kissed her with such ardor. Costia was a traitor. Costia wanted her dead.

She stares out the window for a long time, long after Gustus and Marcus have left, finally understanding that their Empress was not paying attention to whatever plans they were making. Stares until there is a knock at the door, soft. When she doesn’t respond, Clarke steps through it, uncharacteristically tentative.

“Alexandria?” she queries, and Lexa feels some of the tension in her shoulders release at the sound of Clarke’s voice. She closes her eyes, hardening herself against the feeling, her mind constructing elaborate defenses around her heart like the outer rings of a war camp. Costia betrayed her, and she cannot afford to give Clarke that same opportunity. There is too much at stake.

“Clarke,” she answers evenly, turning to look over her shoulder. The Amazon is wearing a slightly different outfit than the one Alexandria had first provided her, this one markedly more Roman in nature. Her tunic, still a deep blue hue, is longer than before, sweeping down well past her knees to rest just below her shins. A thick, corded _strophium_ ties it tightly above the waist, emphasizing her full chest. Lexa glances away quickly, cheeks warm, and in looking at the floor notices that Clarke has foregone her sturdy leather sandals for more decorative Roman sandals that lace, intertwining up her sculpted calves. Her long blonde hair is curled and swept up on the back of her head, leaving a few strands loose to frame her face. Lexa has never seen anyone look so beautiful. She wonders where Clarke got the new clothes, why she requested them.

But the Amazon does not comment on it as she crosses the room to the table where Lexa is sitting, taking the seat beside her. “How are you feeling?” She asks, ever the healer.

Lexa keeps her gaze on the window. “I am well, Clarke. Thank you again for your help yesterday. It was… quite a throw.” She does not mention another thing she has been thinking of; how Clarke threw that knife with deadly accuracy but then did not even think to check the room for additional threats before turning to her. Concern, or recklessness?

Clarke tilts her head to the side, studying her. “Your body has been through a lot these past couple of weeks. It’s normal for you to be tired. You’re still healing from the Iceni attack, after all, and though it doesn’t seem like those drugs did more than paralyze you, it’s still not a natural amount of stress for the body. You should be resting.”

Lexa laughs, and the sound comes out more brittle than amused. “I’m not feeling particularly restful right now, Clarke.” A sideways glance at the Amazon, a split second of eye contact. “Though your concern is… noted. We still haven’t caught the people behind the attack, and my Empire will not be safe until we do. I must stay vigilant..” She looks away, up, keeping her face carefully blank. She does not say that she cannot sleep, or that her disquiet mind rages with thoughts of Costia.

She does not have to. Blonde brows furrow in concern, and Clarke is leaning closer, her hands on Lexa’s knees. Azure eyes meet her own as Clarke leans around her to bring their faces together, looking back and forth between Lexa’s own eyes in that analyzing way that she is beginning to recognize. Lexa stiffens at the contact, pulls back. Clarke moves away immediately, sitting back in her own chair, clasping her hands together in her lap as if to keep them from reaching.

Silence falls, punctuated only by the shallow sounds of their breathing. It’s not uncomfortable, exactly, but Lexa imagines it filled with all the words that they haven’t said, haven’t thought to each other. _I’m sorry_ and _who are you_ and _what are you going to do to me._ Clarke clears her throat. “I heard they still haven’t found Costia.” She waits for Lexa’s shallow nod before continuing. “Do they think she had something to do with this?”

Lexa doesn’t trust herself to respond. She simply nods again, a slight dip of the head. Clarke’s tone is gentle, the kind of gentle people use with an animal that’s only half-tamed, when she asks, “Do you?”

Lexa breathes out through her nose, the rush of air sharp in the otherwise quiet chamber. She lifts her head, lifts her eyes to Clarke, searching for the pity she’s afraid she’ll see there. Perhaps vindication – she knows the Amazon queen was never overly fond of Costia. But she finds neither, and it loosens something that had been clutching in her chest. Loosens it enough for her to admit, “I don’t know what to believe.”

Clarke’s silence is a question in itself. Lexa decides that maybe she needs to talk through this to understand it. “Costia is the daughter of Caius au Junia, a successful merchant in his time,” she begins. “Caius had political ambitions, but he was an outsider – their ancestors were from Sicilia, not Rome itself.” Clarke is giving her a blank look, so she adds, “It’s difficult to succeed in Roman politics unless you have politicians in your bloodline. Even more so if you’re not Roman by birth. An old tradition, and I’m living proof that it’s changing, and yet… Caius could not work his way into the ranks through traditional methods. He became obsessed with a place in the Senate, and as he could not reach his goal through his own merit, he resorted to bribery. The _gens Junia_ owns large tracts of land throughout Sicilia still, growing olives and grapes and making fine wines and oils. They trade also in wool and, I believe, in timber. Caius was adept at managing his lands, and his wife Leontia even more so.” She pauses, mouth tugging into an involuntary smile. She feels like she’s choking on the words. “Costia was better than both of them. She’s single-handedly brought the businesses to Rome, expanded them far beyond anything Caius could have dreamed of.”

There is a hand reaching under the table to hers, fingers curling underneath her own, palm up. Lexa lets herself slide her own through Clarke’s, lets herself feel this one small comfort. She shakes her head, tracking back through the story to find where she left off. “Caius had plenty of coin to spread around. Soon Senators began doing favors for him and the Junia family, using opportunities to elevate his name and reputation. But he was too bold, and my predecessor, Caesar Octavian Augustus, soon caught wind of what was happening. Augustus was not a traditionalist by any means, but he did not trust the morals of a man who would buy his way into a position that was meant to be elected by the people.” She pauses. She does not like to think ill of a man who had such meaning to her, but it seems important to be honest here. “He also had economic interests that conflicted with Caius’s. Caius was swaying the Senators to vote for provisions that benefited outlying areas like Sicilia and Corsica, and Augustus wanted to keep gold here in Rome to fund his campaigns in Egypt and Gaul. He began to speak to the Senators quietly, to sway them back with promises of Imperial favor. Caius found out and confronted him, but both men were stubborn, and both convinced that their actions were justified. Caius ended up losing much of his newfound reputation when his bribery was exposed. Any chance he’d had to become a Senator was extinguished. He swore revenge on Augustus.”

The door opens, and Lexa pulls her hand away from Clarke’s as a servant comes in bearing wine. Lexa eyes it with suspicion, but the servant – a young man this time – dutifully takes a large sip from both cups before setting them down. He stands, waiting with them, for several tense heartbeats before Lexa is satisfied that the wine is not tainted. She waves him away and reaches for her cup, only to be stopped by Clarke’s hand on her shoulder. “Alexandria,” she says, voice quiet but urgent. “Let me.”

Lexa hands her the cup and watches as Clarke sniffs it, then runs her finger along the inside of the rim and sniffs that as well. Her expression does not change as she swirls her tongue around her finger, tasting the traces of wine there. Lexa is transfixed by the sight, a heat forming low in her stomach. Apparently it’s noticeable in her face, because Clarke’s mouth spreads into a slow smile when she looks up. Her smile only stretches as she lifts the cup to her lips and takes a long, slow draw of the wine. Lexa is still watching her as she sets the cup down and reaches for her hand again, pulling their clasped hands into her lap and running her thumb along the back of Lexa’s hand. “We can take our time, Empress,” she says, and there is a husk in her voice that shoots straight to Lexa’s core. “With the wine,” Clarke clarifies, and Lexa knows that wasn’t the only thing she meant. “Give it some time to breathe and settle. If I keel over in the next half-candlemark, we’ll know there’s a problem.”

Lexa feels her lips tug into a frown. “I’d prefer that’s not how we found out.”

Clarke’s short, breathy laugh pulls the air from her lungs. She squeezes Lexa’s hand, leaning back in her chair. Thank Jupiter for that. A moment later and Lexa would have been drawing her into another kiss, searching for poison in a much more delightful way. She struggles to rein herself in, disconnecting their joined hands and drawing hers back into her lap. Confusion flashes across Clarke’s face, and Lexa gives her a little smile to ease the worry. She strengthens her resolve. This is a tale she needs to finish.

“About two years after all this happened, Augustus took a sojourn to Sicilia to inspect some of his own holdings there. The guard he took was light, despite my urging him to be more careful. Silicia was overrun with pirates at the time, and there were plenty of families with holdings in Sicilia that competed directly with his own. It was a dangerous trip, despite being so close to the relative safety of Rome.” She shakes her head. “Caius and his men set upon him on the way back from inspecting one of his vineyards. He fought bravely, but his men were badly outnumbered, and few survived. The ones that did, though, made it back to Rome in time to tell the tale before Caius could spread some plausible lie.” Her mouth pulls together, and she works her jaw before continuing. “Augustus was my adoptive father. As heir and as the new Caesar, it fell to me to decide the fate of his murderer. I had met Costia years before, when I was still _Primus_ and she was merely a patrician girl.” She pauses, trying to figure out how to describe their relationship to Clarke without causing awkwardness. “It became… physical quickly, but there were never any feelings between us. Our affair continued for years as I rose through the ranks of the military and she rose to become the scion of _gens Junia_. We both took other lovers with impunity, and we viewed our time together as harmless fun, nothing more. But when our fathers became adversaries, when I ascended to the throne...” She lets her eyes meet Clarke’s, wills her to see the monster underneath Lexa’s skin. The armor that is her constant companion.

“She begged me for her father’s life. Begged me on her knees on his behalf, and on hers. And I refused her. Rome needed a strong leader, and I needed to prove I was capable of being that leader. The man died a traitor’s death, flung from the Tarpeian Rock. Indra urged me to strip his lands and titles, but I could not. I let her find exile in Sicilia with her family. Later, when she renounced her father and his ideals and begged to be admitted back to Roman society, I allowed it. And years later, when she showed interest again, I let her back into my bed.”

Clarke has been fiddling with the stem of her wine glass as Lexa talked, and now she twirls it in her fingers, considering. Lexa’s own uncertainty grows the longer Clarke is silent. She has been a blind fool, and surely Clarke will see that. See that she was too harsh with Caius, just as she was too lenient with his daughter. See how Lexa’s own mistakes have led her to this moment, her feelings for Costia exposing her and all of Rome to danger. She readies herself for the rejection. But when Clarke looks at her, Lexa sees only acceptance and curiosity in her eyes. Slim fingers curl around the wine glass a little tighter, clutching, as if Clarke is bracing herself for the answer to the question she’s so clearly about to ask. “Do you love her?” she asks, quiet.

Lexa blinks quickly, staring at Clarke with alarm. But the other woman is not looking at her, gaze focused on the table. Lexa sighs. “No,” she says honestly, “Not in the way you mean. She has been in my life a long time. Been a source of comfort and of pleasure.” Clarke stiffens at that, and Lexa hurries to finish. “Our relationship deepened over the years, but we never truly belonged to each other. I didn’t know until somewhat recently that she even wanted that. And when I found out, I didn’t… it wasn’t something I wanted, but it was something I needed, I think. To be loved, as someone other than the Empress. To be loved at all, really.”

She scoffs at herself, at Clarke’s disbelieving stare. “I know how ridiculous it sounds. I’m surrounded by people who look up to me, who watch out for me, who listen to me. But people only see me one way. Even the women I sleep with, it’s the Empress who they see. When they wake up next to Alexandria, it’s always a disappointment. Costia made me feel like she loved the whole of me.” She shakes her head. “I believed her. I have been an utter idiot.”

Clarke is biting her lip, eyes boring holes into the table between them. She looks up at the door, and for a moment Lexa thinks that the blonde will leave, let the words spoken between them just lay there indefinitely. But Clarke huffs out a breath, running her hands through the curls she can reach, upsetting some of them from their pins. Lexa fights the urge to adjust them for her, keeps her hands in place. Clarke is looking away, and the brunette doesn’t know what to say. She’s said too much, clearly, just spilled the entire contents of her head like so much milk from an ewer. She’s exposed herself to this woman, and now she will face the consequences.

Clarke turns back to her, takes a deep breath, eyes searching Lexa’s again. “Thank you for telling me,” she says, and it sounds sincere enough. Lexa squints at her, waiting for the catch. “I understand now why she was so important to you. It must be hard, what’s happening now.”

Lexa can hardly believe her ears. Clarke isn’t going to judge her? Isn’t scared of her part in Costia’s suffering, isn’t disdainful of her blindness in allowing the Junia to get too close? Isn’t jealous of the relationship they had? She nods, not trusting her voice, and Clarke favors her with a weak smile.

“I think that wine has had enough time to breathe,” the Amazon suggests, reaching for her own cup. “This hasn’t killed me yet, so I think it’s safe.” She takes a large gulp of the wine, and Lexa takes the chance to change the subject, not wanting to talk about Costia anymore.

“Speaking of safe,” she begins, reaching for her own cup, “Do you want to tell me why you keep saving my life?”

Clarke’s mouth quirks into something more genuine this time. “You know, for some great famed warrior, you sure do need a lot of saving.” Lexa snorts into her wine and is immediately mortified. Clarke just grins at her.

Lexa throws a half-hearted glare. “I’m serious. And don’t tell me it’s for your people again, because I’ve already assured you that Aden will honor any treaty I’ve entered into with you and your people.”

The blonde looks away, shrugging, the late afternoon sun streaming in from the window and highlighting her profile. Lexa catches her breath at the sight of her, Clarke’s long, sun-bright hair framing her alabaster skin, her full lips and pert nose and those eyes, blue and spinning like the eddies of the Tiber just before the waterfalls. She does not want to keep a hold on her growing feelings for this woman. She wants, so badly, to be weak just this once.

When Clarke looks back to her, her expression is serious, almost grave. Surprised, Lexa prepares herself for the Amazon might say. She does not know what to expect, but she has a feeling it will matter. “Maybe it’s because I see the leader you could be,” Clarke answers, and there’s a ring of truth to her words. “And I’m not ready to give up on that quite yet.”

Lexa doesn’t know what it means, doesn’t know what else she could possibly be. Doesn’t think she can be anything to Clarke but the woman who leads the Empire that crushed her people. But Clarke is looking at her with something like faith in her eyes, and Lexa swallows against the surge of feeling that rises in her at the sight. She turns away quickly, before she can get lost in those eyes and do something that will only get her hurt in the end. She cared for Costia, and it was weakness. She _will not_ repeat that mistake.

There is a knock at the door, and she almost cries with relief at the interruption. “Come in!” she calls out, shifting a little further away from Clarke.

It’s Titus. He moves gingerly, coming into the room with downcast eyes and straightening from his deep bow with a wince. Lexa wonders if Gustus had him whipped for his negligence the day before. The Praetorian glances between his Empress and her ambassador, eyes narrowing. Lexa is satisfied that they are sitting far enough away from each other now not to rouse suspicion, so she wonders what it is that Titus thinks he sees. Perhaps a prejudice towards Amazons in general.

“We have her, my lady. The kitchen girl you ordered taken.” There is something clutched in his hand, something small.

She nods, glancing sideways at Clarke, who shows little outward sign of having heard. But her knuckles are white as she clenches them in her lap, and Lexa knows she is listening all the same. “What took so long?” The Empress asks, cocking her head at him.

Titus flinches, hearing the steel underpinning her casual inquiry. “She was in hiding, my Empress. Still on the palace grounds, but it took us some time to locate her. I’ve had her brought to the throne room for judgment.” He uncurls his fist and extends it to her, revealing a small vial filled with opaque, silvery liquid. “We found this in her quarters.”

Lexa rises, brushing her skirt. She extends her hand to Clarke, helping the Amazon to her feet before retracting it, touching the other woman no longer than appropriate for their respective positions. “It seems I have business I must attend to,” she tells Clarke. “As the accused is a Skaikru Amazon, you have a right to be at her interrogation. Would you attend?”

Sensing the shift in formality, Clarke dips her head, not looking at Titus. Lexa sighs inwardly. Clarke has yet to learn to bow, and it will not continue to escape the notice of her court. Outwardly, she nods and gestures to the door, letting Clarke exit the room before she follows, leaving Titus to bring up the rear.

 

\-----------------------------

 

Clarke notices the change in Alexandria’s posture almost immediately on hearing the news that her Amazon is waiting for them. Her shoulders lift and square, carrying her frame upwards to a balance that seems more military than royal. Indeed, Alexandria near marches them to the throne room, moving with a fluid grace that Clarke has only seen in the warriors and the dancers of the Amazon tribes. Not for the first time, she wonders where Alexandria did most of her training. She does not move like the other Romans Clarke has seen.

The shield of the Empress is firmly in place by the time they reach the throne room. Clarke is learning to recognize the differences between the Alexandria she knows in private and the Empress of Rome. The harder, more sure set of her jaw. Her eyes, devoid of the gentle, almost tender way she looks at Clarke. Her voice, harsh and commanding, nothing like the way she usually speaks to the Amazon queen. Her whole demeanor shifts into something that seems more believable on the tyrant Clarke’s always been led to believe the Empress was rather than the woman she sees as Alexandria. She understands why Costia must have been so appealing to her, a woman who could see both facets of who Alexandria was. And it’s becoming quickly apparent to Clarke that she herself can do the same.

Part of her knows that it’s easier for her to see Alexandria as two different people because it’s easier to reconcile her attraction that way. She can justify what still feels like a betrayal of her people if she cares for Alexandria the woman, not Alexandria au Augustus, Empress of Rome. But another part of her, a deeper part, whispers that the two are inseparable, that she is attracted to Alexandria in some way _because_ she is the Empress of Rome. Because she is a flesh and blood woman with worries and fears and dreams who shoulders an impossible burden in the name of duty and of protecting her people. Because Clarke herself is doing the same thing.

She may feel disconnected from her people at the moment, may not be visibly helping them. But she _will_ convince Alexandria to free the Skaikru. She’s on the verge of finding the solution – she just can’t quite grasp it yet. But she knows it will come.

In the meantime, she just has to convince Alexandria that her Amazon was not involved in any attack on the Empress’s life. If one of them has taken matters into their own hands, she will only have herself to blame. Raven was right – she has not been as transparent with her people as she should have been about her plans to try for an alliance with Rome. She’d feared retribution – but also, selfishly, she’d been too involved in healing Alexandria and settling into her new life as a captive queen to think about the way her people must have been feeling, trapped in the palace and forced to work in the kitchens and armories. She should have realized how betrayed they must have felt, thinking their queen had abandoned them for the glories of Rome. She should have known about Raven’s meetings. She will not forgive herself if one of her own dies for her stupidity.

They enter the throne room and Clarke’s attention is immediately drawn to the woman bound and on her knees on the hard marble floor. Maya sits up as straight as she can, stretching her neck to its full length. She starts as she sees Clarke, but then smiles a cold, wide smile, pride filling her young features. Clarke feels sick to her stomach as she considers the other woman. Maya was wounded and nearly killed in the attack on the Skaikru. She was present in the infirmary as Clarke told her Amazons that blood must have blood. She has no reason to love the Empress, and plenty to try to kill her.

She vaguely registers Titus splitting off behind her, moving to join a tall, skinny guard in the corner and another centurion who Clarke recognizes after a moment as Wells, the man who escorted her to the kitchen weeks ago. Octavia and Lincoln are standing in the center of the room behind Maya, guarding the dark-haired Amazon with stony expressions. Indra and Gustus are positioned beside Alexandria’s throne, opposite from each other. Clarke doesn’t know where to stand, so she stops next to Maya, her hand drifting down to the other woman’s shoulder in a gesture of comfort.

It is the wrong move, she can see. Indra looks as if she is about to rush them, her rage clear in the widening of her eyes and the way her hand inches toward the hilt of her weapon. Gustus simply seems concerned, catching her eye and looking pointedly at an open space on his left. So that was where she was supposed to stand. She lifts her chin to let him know she understood his message, but stays put. From behind, she can feel more than see Lincoln and Octavia shift, positioning themselves closer to her and Maya.

Alexandria is still walking towards the throne, back turned to them. When she scales the dias and turns, the Empress of Rome is staring down at them, countenance impassive as she regards Clarke standing with her palm on the shoulder of a woman accused of involvement in an assassination attempt on the Empress herself. Green eyes bore into Clarke’s own, tempting her to move, but she stands firm. Her duty to her people comes first.

“Maya of the Skaikru Amazons,” Indra’s voice booms out, echoes ricocheting off of the marble walls and floors, “You have been accused of drugging the Empress’s wine and sending an assassin to murder her while she was indisposed. A vial of the drug was found in a search of your quarters. Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

Alexandria leans forward in her chair, studying Maya intently. For her part, Maya breaks into a wide, slightly unhinged grin. “Is it really treason if I’m not a citizen of Rome?” she quips, an edge in her voice that Clarke has never heard before.

Her hand tightens on Maya’s shoulder. She doesn’t know if it’s a warning to keep quiet or her own distress at realizing what’s about to happen.

Indra tenses, a predatory gleam in her eye. “So you do not deny these charges?”

Maya spits on the floor. Clarke tightens her grip more, and Maya looks up at her with something that would be reverence, if only it weren’t for the slight tint of madness running underneath it. How did Clarke not see this developing? How could she have been so neglectful of her own people? “You had us in chains, _Empress_ ,” she bites out. “Did you expect me to do nothing?”

Indra opens her mouth to reply, but Alexandria cuts her off. “Did you work alone?” She asks, and it’s clear in her face that she’s eager to hear the answer. Clarke’s heart sinks a little in her chest. Costia. Alexandria is still trying to absolve Costia.

Maya tilts her head to the side, considering. “There was another woman,” she says slowly. “Slender, pretty thing? Bit of an accent on her? I never got her name, but she’s the one who approached _me_ with the idea. I would never have been able to put a plan into action without her help.”

From an outsider’s perspective, the Empress’s only reaction is to blink at the information. But Clarke can see the way her long fingers tighten on the edge of the throne’s arms, can see the way Alexandria swallows, closes her eyes against the confirmation of Costia’s involvement. The knowledge that not only did Costia participate in the attack, she _planned it_. But perhaps Clarke isn’t alone in being able to read Alexandria like a book, because Maya is grinning wickedly now. “She must really hate you, to think of something like that,” the Amazon adds, and for the first time, Clarke finds herself wanting to inflict pain on one of her own people. She removes her hand from Maya’s shoulder, steps in front of the other woman. A human barrier between her and Alexandria, and she doesn’t know who she’s protecting.

“Why?” she asks, certain that her voice carries none of the steadiness she wishes for in this moment. “Why would you attack the Empress? Did you not trust me to provide for our people?”

Maya snarls, face contorted in the type of rage that comes only from losing something important. “You dare ask me _why_ , my queen?” she sneers, lurching forward in her bonds towards Clarke. Clarke does not give her the satisfaction of flinching back. “That woman,” Maya spits, jerking her head past Clarke towards the Empress, “Killed our queen. Slaughtered our people. Enslaved the rest of us. You’ve _seen_ what she’s done to us, my queen. You said it yourself, Klark. _Jus drein jus daun._ ”

Clarke’s stomach clenches at the laundry list of Alexandria’s transgressions toward her people. When did those stop being something that kept her away from the Roman Empress? And then, at hearing her own words repeated in her own language… She hasn’t heard Trigedasleng in days. Will Maya be executed for following Clarke’s own words to her, all those weeks ago? Will Clarke be responsible for the death of one of her own?

Alexandria is looking at her expectantly, and it takes Clarke a long moment to understand exactly what it is that the brunette wants from her. It takes her remembering who they are, respectively, what Clarke’s duties to the Empress of Rome entail. Alexandria expects her to translate. She debates her own mind, wondering if it would be better to lie to Alexandria just this once. But she knows at least Wells speaks Trigedasleng, knows there may be others. She will only cause more problems by lying.

“It means blood must have blood, Empress,” she admits warily, eyeing Alexandria for a reaction. She finds none. She hurriedly adds, “It’s an old Amazon saying. But it’s wrong.” Maya starts up, reeling away from Clarke in shock and indignation. Clarke wills her warrior to understand as she pleads for her life. “Please, Empress. Maya has done a terrible thing, but she believed she was doing right by her people. You don’t have to do this, you can show my people you are merciful. Show them that Romans are more than the barbarians we’ve always been led to believe you are.”

Alexandria debates for a moment, the clench of her jaw the only visible sign of her internal struggle. She shakes her head imperceptibly, and Clarke is reminded of her words only hours before. _She begged me for her father’s life. Begged me on her knees on his behalf, and on hers. And I refused her._ Here Clarke was, with another traitor, another assassin, making the same plea. Why would the outcome be any different?

Alexandria’s words confirm her worst fears. “We are what we are, Clarke,” she answers, aspect grim. “The girl dies.”

 _No._ It can’t be this, another death on Clarke’s hands after all she’s done to fight for her people. After all the plans she’s made for their salvation. “Empress,” she tries again, hating herself for trying to influence Alexandria in this way. If she’s planning on making the Empress trust her, she’s doing a poor job of it by attempting to manipulate her emotions the first time one of her people gets into trouble. But Maya’s life is at stake, and Clarke cannot lose anyone else. “Blood must not have blood. There are other punishments – exile, labor, anything. She does not have to die.”

Alexandria’s nostrils flare, and Clarke is beginning to think she’s made a mistake. “Clarke of the Skaikru,” she says, and Clarke straightens as Alexandria turns to face her, keeping herself from lapsing into a defensive stance by sheer force of will. “You do not know what you ask. By Roman law, a traitor has no honor. Her life has no worth, and therefore her death cannot be too low. I could have her crucified. I could have her dragged behind a horse or strangled in the square. I could have her thrown in a sack and beaten, then thrown in the Tiber to drown. All are punishments that have been meted out for less than what your Amazon has done. And you are asking me to let her spend her life in exile, to give her exactly what she’s tried to get through killing me – escape from Rome?”

Were it not for the fury working its way up through her veins, Clarke would have recognized the warning signs. Would have seen the way the Praetorians were tensing around their Empress, reading her mood and preparing to step forward. “What would any of those punishments show? Your strength? What strength is there in brutally killing a woman you’ve already enslaved?”

Alexandria bares her teeth in a snarl. “It would show the wrath of Rome!” she answers, leveling a glare at Clarke that would send a wiser woman running from the room.

But Clarke is not wise, not when she is so angry that she can barely see straight. “Don’t you think we’ve seen enough of that already?” she practically shouts, only to stop short as she sees Alexandria’s face whiten with her responsive fury.

Beside her, Indra starts forward, lips pressed together in an angry line. When the general speaks, her voice is nearly hoarse with rage. “This savage tried to _kill_ the Empress of Rome, and you defend her?” She turns on Alexandria. “They are both in need of punishment, my Empress, only let me – “  
           

“Enough, Indra,” Alexandria cuts in, silencing her general with an upraised hand. “Clarke of the Skaikru only advocates for her people, however unwisely.” Alexandria’s uplifted eyebrow is a warning in and of itself. “But I have made my decision.”

 _No._ No, she can’t have messed this up, too. Can’t have failed another one of her people. She jerks forward, but is halted almost immediately by a touch at her back. “Don’t be stupid,” Octavia au Aquilli hisses in her ear. Shock makes her halt in her tracks.

Alexandria is moving, prowling towards Maya like a great jungle cat, the look on her face one of absolute conviction. “Maya of the Skaikru Amazons,” she says, the somber note of judgment in her voice, “Your queen has begged me for the right to your life. She has pleaded with me to show you mercy. You, a traitor, who sought to bring about my own death through cowardice and trickery. You do not deserve the faith of such a queen. But, as a gesture of good will to the Skaikru Amazons, I will grant your queen’s desire. I, Alexandria au Augustus, _Imperator Caesar Augustus_ , Empress of all Rome, hereby sentence you to death by sword. I will wield the blade myself.”

In unison, the Praetorians in the room inhale sharply. It is Gustus who tries to intervene this time, confusion and dismay written wide across his face. “”Empress, are you sure? Why would you honor this… this traitor in such a manner? She should be thrown from the Rock!”

His words trigger another memory, again from her conversation with Alexandria just hours before. _The man died a traitor’s death, flung from the Tarpeian Rock._ The magnitude of what Alexandria has just done for her, what Clarke has _asked_ her to do, crushes the breath from her lungs. Gustus told her how precarious Alexandria’s hold on power was himself. Now the same man is standing in front of her guards and advisors, questioning her publicly. Because of Clarke.

The Empress lifts her head, breathing in deeply through her nose. Without looking at Gustus, she snaps, “You dare question me in this, Gustus? Would you care to back up your insolence with your sword?”

Clarke has never seen Alexandria’s eyes look the way they do right now, ablaze with fury and determination. She is half convinced that if Gustus could see her face from where he was standing, he’d be burned to ashes on the spot. But even without seeing her, he seems to regret his intrusion immediately. It is strange to see such a large man look so defeated. “I am sorry, Empress,” he grunts, keeping his voice low.

Alexandria only gives a haughty nod, as if the apology was expected, the only reasonable thing he could have done. Octavia and Lincoln seem to take this as the end of the trial, because they step forward and grab Maya under the armpits, hauling her to her feet. The dark-haired warrior raises her head to look at Clarke, no hint of remorse on her face. Her expression holds the fiery light of the fanatical as she wriggles her way out of their grasp, launching herself at Clarke.

Maya latches her chained arms around Clarke’s neck, and for a moment the blonde thinks her own warrior is going to strangle her, but instead Maya pulls her close and whispers in her ear. “Klark, Harper is alive. Don’t lose hope. They’re coming.”

And then Alexandria herself is at her side, hauling Maya’s arms up and over Clarke’s head, hurling the warrior backwards into Octavia and Lincoln’s waiting arms. Maya is still shouting defiance as they drag her out of the room, but Clarke cannot hear her words. Her ears are still ringing with the promise – and dread – of the rescue Harper heralds. _They’re coming._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Circense – Circus  
> Primus – Highest ranking centurion.  
> Comes Domesticorum – Head of the Household Guard  
> Strophium – A cord or braid of cloth tied beneath a woman’s breasts to hold up her tunic. Basically a belt that went high on the waist.  
> Gens Junia – The Junia family. This would have included close family as well as distant relatives – think like Game of Thrones style Houses. There would be different branches all under the same main branch, or gens.  
> Jus drein jus daun – If you need me to translate this, get out.
> 
> Author’s note: You guys, I made up all that stuff about Caius. Not remotely historically accurate or even a real person. Octavian Augustus died, it is thought, of natural causes at the ripe old age of 75. There has been speculation that his wife Livia murdered him, but it’s never been confirmed.
> 
> The Tarpeian Rock has a pretty nasty history, but it’s basically a big cliff that they used to throw traitors off of because it was shameful. There’s a way better explanation than that, but I’m too tired to give it right now. Hit me up on Tumblr if you want the whole story.


	14. XIV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, this is later than I wanted it to be, but it's here now! For a little background, I've been working a ton at my real life job and have also been interviewing to switch - and I'm starting a new job in late March! Which is awesome for me personally, but not great for you guys because it means I get a lot less time to write. But I swear I won't give up and I'm still going to try really hard to make sure this gets updated at least monthly. But I'm going to stop promising actual dates, cause I'm terrible at actually fulfilling those promises.
> 
> One last thing: if anyone is going to ClexaCon and wants to meet up, my wife and I will be there! So hit me up on Tumblr - same name - if you'll be there and you want to hang out!

The upper garden has quickly become Raven’s favorite part of the Julii estate. The whole complex is open and airy, which is a relief after being cooped up in the Empress’s palace for so long. But the garden is completely exposed, tall trees and flowering plants grouped so closely together Raven is reminded of the forest she grew up in. There’s a falsity to it, of course, a careful curating that belies the fantasy of a wild place. Still, surrounded by nature, Raven almost forgets that she is not free.

There’s a fountain in the center of the garden with a statue of some Roman goddess in it –Minerva, she thinks – with two long stone benches arranged in semicircles around it. Wide, strong columns surround the garden square, leading to open hallways with the estate’s walls set farther back, doorways cut into the stone walls leading to the rest of the _domus_. She knows already which ones lead to the estate’s exits.

Since being sold to the Empress’s cousin two days ago, Raven has had plenty of free time to explore her new home – at least, for the time being. Anya au Julii has given her no duties, made no demands on her time. Occasionally, Tristan will appear at the door of her suite with a stack of scrolls for her to study. The first time it had happened she’d inquired about their purpose, but Tristan had only shrugged and informed her that the _domina_ wished her to be informed. She’d let them sit on her table out of spite, but without anything else to occupy her time, she’d given up hours in and read them all out of sheer boredom. They’re mostly on architecture and engineering, subjects she would have thought forbidden for a woman to study here. Still, despite the strangeness of the subject matter, she is grateful for the distraction.

There’s only so much wandering she can do, after all. She’s tried to seem innocuous about it, carrying her scrolls around with her to make it look like she’s just trying to find a good place to read. Really, she’s been scoping out the layout of the place, memorizing the halls and the turns and the people she passes. She needs to know which ones have guards, which ones leads to the busier places like the kitchens and the baths where people are more likely to be. She needs to know every path to every exit blindfolded if she’s going to escape and get back to her people.

She still isn’t sure if it’s the best idea. It wouldn’t be difficult, she doesn’t think – the soldiers Anya employs seem to alert and well-trained, but there aren’t very many of them. Raven has enough time and so little supervision that she doubts anyone would even notice she was missing until long after she’d gone. But there’s the problem of where she would go. Her village is deserted with all of her sisters either dead or captured and here in Rome. She could seek out one of the other tribes, but she’s hoping Harper has found them by now and they’ve called a tribal council, which means they might be on the move. She’d likely miss them on the road. And she can’t exactly run off to freedom with the rest of her people still trapped here in the city.

If only she could speak to Clarke. Her anger at the other woman is still a roiling wave inside her, surging to the surface every time she remembers her queen’s failure to kill the Empress when she had the chance. Clarke might not even be willing to work with her to free their sisters – she seemed all too comfortable with her new position as the Empress’s ambassador. But out here in the country, Raven has no information – she won’t know if her sisters are moved, or released, or even killed. She has no way of knowing what’s happening with them. If she has to do this on her own, she’s going to need a method of getting information from the palace.

She’s still thinking it over when a sound breaks the silence behind her, fabric swishing together as someone moves through the garden, and Raven turns to see none other than Anya au Julii making her way towards the center fountain. The woman is chatting animatedly with a tall, muscular man in a fine linen toga. Raven hasn’t spoken to him before, but Tristan had pointed him out earlier as Ryder au Orata, Anya’s husband. They appear to be arguing, the man spreading his hands and shaking his head at his wife as she speaks. Raven is too far to hear their words, but their voices are definitely raised.

Her staring seems to trigger some kind of awareness in the _domina_ , because Anya turns to look at her, narrowing her sable eyes as she takes in the sight of Raven watching their argument. She says something to Ryder, tilting her head sharply to the inside of the _domus_ , and he grunts something in response before turning and walking away.

Anya’s glare only intensifies as she begins stalking towards Raven, grace and arrogance in the lift of her head, the set of her shoulders, the confident sway of her stride. Raven forces herself to keep her own gaze locked on Anya’s, not to back down. This Roman expects her subservience. She will not get it.

Anya barely slows as she approaches Raven’s bench, coming within a few inches of the warrior before she stops and hisses, “Amazon. Enjoying the show?”

Raven cocks an eyebrow, leaning back on the bench and letting her hands drop from her lap to her sides, bracing herself. “I’ve been here for hours, _domina_ ,” she says, making sure that indolence seeps out of every syllable. She cheers internally at Anya’s visible annoyance at her irreverent tone. “I wasn’t to know you would choose this location for your… chat… with your husband.”

Anya’s mouth tightens, but she nods, looking the Amazon up and down. “Hours? Are you not reading the scrolls I’ve sent to you? It’s important that you have a good working knowledge of their contents if you are to be of any use to me here. If you’re going to dally in the garden and not educate yourself, you might as well be washing dishes.”

Irritation rises in her but she pushes it away, knowing that she’ll have to keep her head level if she wants the Roman to come out on the losing end of this conversation. Raven lets her teeth show in her answering smile. “I’ve read all of them, _domina_ , some several times. If you have anything else, I’d be glad of something to occupy my time.”

There’s a beat while the Roman considers her words, and then she is shocked to see a wide grin spread across Anya’s face, though there is no mirth in it. “If it’s industry you want, Amazon, I shall make sure you have it. Come with me.”

Raven has no choice but to follow the Roman out of the garden and back through the winding halls of the _domus_. She frowns when they take a path she hasn’t explored yet – she thought she’d got them all – and head down a flight of stairs to a shadowed corridor with only one large door in it.

Anya pushes aside the large wooden door and brushes her way into the darkened room, beckoning for Raven to follow. Raven doesn’t have a word for the room they enter, but it is large, filled with tall shelves brimming with papyrus scrolls and wax tablets, some even bound into books. There are long tables that bear piles of scrolls on them as well, interspersed with ink pots and long, feathered quills. The air has a smells of dust and learning, the wax-rubbed scent of a good scroll long worn with use. For all that this room seems to be relegated to the darkest corner of the estate, overlooked and – if the dust is any indication – seldom used, it brings forth a sense of wonder in Raven. She has never seen anything like it.

A slender, middle-aged Roman man sits at the end of one of the long tables, scribbling furiously by the dim light of a flickering oil lamp. “Sinclair,” Anya says, and the man jumps at the sound of her voice, clearly having been too immersed in his work to notice them come in. “This is Raven, an Amazon warrior I’ve recently taken into my employ.” Raven nearly snorts at the description, her derision at the way Anya casually brushes away her enslavement delaying the realization that, after only hearing it once, Anya still remembers her name.

The _domina_ ignores her. “You’ve been begging my husband for help copying those scrolls for months now. Here it is.”

Raven’s starting to get a bad feeling about this, and it only grows when Anya turns to her with something like amusement in her eyes for the first time in their conversation.

“Amazon,” she says, and Raven grits her teeth. Anya knows her name, but apparently refuses to use it. “You will report here every day at dawn to assist Sinclair in copying over these scrolls. You will work until he releases you, which is not to be later than sundown. You will do this until either the task is done, or I tell you otherwise.” She gives Raven a cold smile. “I will refrain from sending any further reading material to you for now, as your time for such will be limited.”

Raven takes in the room again, cramped despite its size by the sheer volume of writing and reading materials inside. She looks at Sinclair, his weasel-like face upturned with a scowl, as though he’s already expecting her presence to be more burden than boon. She looks back at Anya, who is watching her with a waiting gaze, clearly thinking she’s won some sort of match between them.

Raven sighs inwardly. Still, she gives Anya a sarcastic dip of a bow and goes to sit at the table across from Sinclair, picking up an ink pot and pen and pulling over the next scroll at the top of the nearest pile. “As you wish, _domina_ ,” she answers, and does not turn to look back at Anya when she leaves.

\----------------------------------------

Marcus au Quinctilius scratches his chin where the beginnings of a beard are starting to grow. The damned thing itches to the underworld, but between the assassination attempts and now this news from the legions, the last few days haven’t given him much time to maintain his shaving routine. He glances around the table at the grim faces beside him, each visage focused on the kneeling scout in the center of the room.

They’d moved to one of the war rooms from the throne room at Alexandria’s insistence, the young Empress sensing that the information about to be delivered may be too important to be reported in a large, open space where anyone could overhear. She’d even donned her armor, forgoing the traditional tunic worn at council meetings for the more militant breastplate and metal skirt of the legion. Now the Empress is lounging against the side of the war table, expressionless, staring at the scout as if the information he’s just given them all does not herald the possible downfall of Rome. If Marcus didn’t know better, he’d think her almost uninterested in the news. But he does know better, and the slightest tightening of her lips is a dead giveaway that Alexandria au Augustus is very worried indeed. He suspects the lounging is less about her trying to keep up appearances and more about the fact that she’s still recovering from two assassination attempts in as many weeks. It’s a wonder she’s on her feet at all.

Gustus au Scipio stands at her left side, opposite Marcus himself who is at her right. The burly man is scratching his own beard, leaning over the map spread out on the table before him. With his free hand, he’s pushing small wooden markers meant to signify legions and cohorts into position, using markers made of a different wood for the enemy’s troops. Indra au Fabia stands next to him, peering over his shoulder at his design. Every so often she will mutter something to him, correcting the troop position, and he will shift the marker to the left or the right. Aden au Augustus stands between Indra and Marcus on the other side, completing the circle. The boy has a pensive look to him that makes him look older than he really is, but his facial expressions are close enough to his aunt’s that Marcus can read the distress in the hunch of his shoulders. There’s something in Aden’s eyes, however, that Marcus has never seen in Alexandria’s – fear.

Marcus sighs heavily. He wishes it were later in the day, so there could at least be wine to go with this news. He turns to the boy kneeling on the floor, flanked by a scowling Titus. Another Praetorian, a veteran who replaced Murphy as Titus’s partner, stands just behind them, his back to the closed door, keeping watch. Marcus gives them both a nod and Titus takes a step back to join his colleague, giving the scout a little bit more room to breathe. The poor boy is terrified, almost shaking. He can’t be older than thirteen, and he’s delivering news that could easily lead to his death at the hands of a dictator as brutal as Alexandria is rumored to be. Marcus knows that Alexandria is unlikely to kill the boy just for giving her bad news, although her temper does sometimes take him by surprise. She seems calm for now, but perhaps he’d better intercede just in case.

“Get up, boy,” Marcus tells him, and the young scout rises, his eyes still downcast. Marcus turns and gestures towards the table. “Walk us through your message again. We need to make sure our counts and positions are accurate.”

The boy’s throat bobs, and he takes the few short steps to the table, where Aden and his aunt make room for Marcus to squeeze into place beside the scout. The boy raises a nervous fist to his chest at finding Alexandria’s gaze on him, and she nods impatiently to get him to go on. “The First and Third Legions are encamped to the north and west of Rome, per your orders, Empress, guarding the area between the city and Brittania. The Third is somewhat understaffed following the deaths of the Second Cohort, but it seems that they are faring well under the leadership of the new _Primus. Primus_ Tris au Galeria sent me to report on the comings and goings she has seen at Boudica’s encampment outside Londinium.”

Alexandria nods, impatient at the repeated information. “And?” she asks tersely.

“Their numbers are substantial, Empress. Near ten legions already, though hundreds more Celts pour in every day. The ranks appear to be made up of mostly farmer instead of hardened fighters, however. The weapons we’ve seen have been farming tools, hoes and rakes, and the few swords and scant armor they have is primarily bronze. It’s a war camp, but it looks like they’ve brought in some livestock to help supplement the rations they’re scrounging from the countryside. They’re waiting for more to join them.”

Gustus grunts under his breath, adding more wooden markers to the cluster around Londinium. Marcus glances at him out of the corner of his eye, aware that even that much of a response is unusual for the head of the Empress’s household guard. Running his fingers through his wavy, close-cropped hair, he turns back to the scout. “And the markers on the table, they’re correct in location?” At the scout’s nod he huffs out a breath. “Good, boy. Tell us the rest.”

He swallows visibly. “Boudica has had visitors.” Every warrior in the room tenses, and the boy says, even quieter, “The Amazons. And… the Visigoths.” It shouldn’t still be a surprise – after all, they’ve heard it before – but Marcus still feels his blood run cold at the response. Alexandria had warned him weeks ago that this might happen. He had thought her fixated, even paranoid; but it seems she was right all along.

“And how did we guess the identity of these visitors?” Indra demands, her general’s voice carrying low and strong. The boy flinches back as if struck by the sound of it.

“One of the Amazons was recognized by a member of the First Cohort as one let free by the former _Primus_ at the Battle of Arkadia.” Indra tenses at this, shooting a sidelong glance at Alexandria, who purses her lips. Marcus watches the exchange curiously. There has to be a story there. But the boy is continuing. “She was tall, blonde and had on the traditional leather armband of an Amazon priestess. There were others among them, including one who wore the ceremonial mask of the Queen of the Broadleaf Amazons. The Amazons call them the _Yujleda_. Our scouts spotted beading for at least three other tribes amongst them.”

Alexandria sucks in a breath, and Marcus turns to her. She is gripping the hilt of her sword with white knuckles. There is a long moment of silence, and then a boyish voice speaks up. Not the scout, but Aden au Augustus. “Empress?” he asks, directing his question to Alexandria. “Who are these Broadleaf Amazons? What’s the significance of having multiple tribes together like this?”

Marcus watches as she takes a deep breath, schooling her features into the commanding gaze of the Empress before she faces her adoptive son. “The Amazons are made up of twelve tribes, Aden. Each has its own queen. Clarke of the Skaikru, whom you’ve met, is one such. But all are ruled by a high queen who commands the twelve tribes. Clarke’s mother, Abbinia, was High Queen while she lived. At her death the title would have passed to her lieutenant, the queen of another tribe. It appears that if the Queen of the Broadleaf tribe is wearing her mask, it passed to her.”

She pauses, glances over at Indra. Her general picks up the narrative. “Broadleaf are known for their ruthlessness,” the dark-skinned woman says, characteristically blunt. “We don’t know much about some of the Amazon tribes, but Broadleaf clan is notorious. Their leader is a woman named Diana, named after the goddess of the hunt. By all accounts, she is a shrewd and unfeeling leader, though it appears that her methods are effective. Broadleaf is one of the strongest of the Amazon tribes. Perhaps the strongest, now that _Skaikru_ has been obliterated.”

Alexandria clears her throat, and it sounds to Marcus like a warning. Indra moves on. “If the Broadleaf are meeting with the Celts, it could mean that the entire Amazon nation is allying with Boudica. That would be… unfortunate, to say the least.”

Aden has been paling visibly throughout the exchange, and Marcus almost hates to make the lad more fearful by bringing up the worst part of this mess. Still, as _Consul_ , he has to acknowledge the greater threat to Rome. He makes himself look back at the scout, who has been silent throughout the exchange, no doubt glad not to be the center of attention. He straightens when he realizes that Marcus is looking at him again. Marcus steels himself for the question he does not want to ask. “And what of the Visigoths? What can you tell us of their visit with the Iceni Queen?”

“There was only one Visigoth ambassador,” the scout replies without hesitation. “The Ice Queen’s son, Prince Roan. Our man recognized him on sight.”

“If Nia is sending Roan, she must have great need for the Iceni’s help,” Marcus begins, but Alexandria shakes her head.

“The numbers will help, but what she really wants is vindication,” the Empress says, looking over at him. “She will try to make common cause with Boudica over the ‘mistreatment’ of the outlying provinces by Rome. She will make us out to be vicious, to be conquerors who care not for the lands and the people we pillage. She will use the alliance with Boudica to recruit more from the provinces, setting herself up as a hero avenging the wrongs of Rome. We cannot allow this to happen.”

She turns to Marcus, meets his eyes. He expected to find something else there – fear, perhaps, or wariness – but he should have known better. Alexandria’s eyes are blazing with a fury he can see she is barely controlling, a white-hot fire running just under the surface. He does not envy her sparring partner this afternoon. He gives her a nod, the slightest encouragement. He does not believe she needs it, but she seems to be looking to him for something, and it’s the only way he knows how to help at this point. Marcus may have a fine mind for government, but he is no military man. He will be of little help here.

Fortunately, the same cannot be said of Alexandria. “Indra,” she snaps, and Marcus is surprised to hear that her voice has dropped lower, almost to a growl. “What news from our spies in Nia’s army? Do we know anything more of her location?”

Beside Indra, Aden flinches back at the shift in his adoptive mother’s tone, pulling his shoulders up and back into a soldier’s stance. At the door, Titus has a similar reaction. Indra, for her part, seems unfazed. “The last information that we have has her moving towards Rome, but still several weeks away. We’d had their numbers marking upwards of fifteen legions at the last report about three days ago.”

Marcus frowns. “You don’t have them making daily reports?”

Indra shifts her attention to him, and he wonders if he should not have spoken. Military matters are Indra’s purview, after all. But Alexandria nods at his side, and he relaxes somewhat. “They are supposed to be making daily reports, yes,” Indra says, looking visibly put-out at having to admit this. “But I have not heard anything for the past two days. My men may well be dead.” She shrugs. “It is also possible, however, that their means of communication has been restricted, or that it has become too dangerous for them to report so often. There is little to be done, save sending more spies. And if we do that, we risk them being caught and revealing those already embedded in the enemy’s army.”

“Titus,” Alexandria snaps, startling the Praetorian, who has been paying rapt attention to the discussion, no doubt concerned by this latest threat to his homeland. “Go and fetch my armor, and inform Aden’s and Gustus’s men that they will require theirs as well. We will be at the sparring ring shortly.”

The bald man hesitates for a moment, and then asks, “Should I send another guard to attend you, Empress?”

She narrows her eyes at him, apparently displeased by the delay. “Get me the Aquilli.”

As Titus bows and leaves the room, leaving his new partner to shift over to more effectively guard the door alone, Alexandria turns to the rest of the war council. “Indra, recall every available legion to Rome. Leave a skeletal force on the Gallic border and the entire Twelfth Legion in Egypt. But get me at least twenty legions in Rome by midsummer, do you understand?”

Indra snaps to attention, closing a fist and raising it to her chest. “It will be as you say, Empress.”

The young Augustus turns to Marcus, and he can see the dismissal on her face. She’s had enough of reporting for now, and is no doubt yearning to take to the practice grounds and hack at her huge household guard until her muscles burn. He knows her well enough to recognize the need to finish this quickly. “I will assist _Legatus Augusti pro praetor_ au Fabia with her task, Empress,” he volunteers quickly. “And prepare the city for the return of our legions. I’ll call in the local farmers to begin donations of food for storage for the city. If my Empress will agree, we can all meet again in two days’ time and I will report on my progress.”

Alexandria nods at him, and he does not miss the flash of gratitude in her eyes. “Thank you, _Consul_ au Quinctilius,” she answers. Then, to Indra, “And increase the scouting along Boudica’s route. Have them fan out for twenty leagues to the east and west of her encampment. I think it unlikely that Prince Roan would travel so far from his army alone. We are missing something here, Indra. We must find out what.”

The general bows, and she is almost out the door before Alexandria speaks again. “Wait, Indra. Tell me. Have they found Costia?”

Marcus swivels around to look at her, assessing. Her facial expression is too careful, too controlled, and he tightens his fists at the thought that his Empress might still have feelings for the woman whose father killed his Emperor and who then herself tried to kill his Empress.

Indra pauses, but does not turn around. She shakes her head slowly, and when she speaks, her voice is soft. “No word, Alexandria.”

The Augustus blinks once, twice, and swallows. It isn’t much, but to Marcus, it’s like watching a beautiful _fresco_ be defaced. Alexandria au Augustus is heartbroken.

\--------------------------

Clarke has almost given up looking for Alexandria when she runs into Gustus in the hallway. The big man is busy buckling on his breastplate as he walks, but his haste has his hands fumbling with the intricate clasp at the side. She chides him to a halt so she can help him with it, finally asking him what has him so worked up as he fidgets to the side _yet again_ , ruining her attempt at getting his armor on straight.

“The Empress commanded me to the training ground nearly a candlemark ago,” he huffs out, “And I am very late.” She finally manages to get the buckle in place and steps back, watching as Gustus flexes his arms and twists to the side, making sure the breastplate is not too tight. It seems to be adequate, because he says, “You have my thanks, Clarke of the Skaikru,” and then starts walking away, his long stride quickly creating a distance between them.

Clarke hurries after him. “Gustus, wait! I’ll go with you,” she calls. “I wanted to speak to the Empress myself.”

He slows, but does not stop, and she is nearly jogging to catch up with him even at the more lenient pace. When she draws even with him, he looks over at her, studying her, making up his mind. “Come on, then,” he finally says, and picks up the pace again. She breaks into a full-on jog this time, and as they exit the palace proper and move out into the courtyard, she swears she hears him mumble, “Maybe she won’t yell so loudly if I show up with you.”

Clarke hears the sounds of battle before she sees them, metal ringing against metal against a backdrop of scuffling feet and the cries of onlookers. By the time they come into sight, Clarke can see that Aden and Alexandria have been sparring for quite some time. The Empress barely looks winded, her curled brunette hair swept back from her face in a warrior’s braid, chest covered in a sleeveless breastplate that exposes her long, muscled arms and a metal war skirt that barely falls to her knees. Clarke feels her mouth go dry at the sight of so much of Alexandria’s tanned skin on display, momentarily forgetting that she’s seen the woman in front of her completely nude more than once. The Empress moves with lightning-quick grace, circling her adoptive son with two swords held up and at the ready. Gustus stops a little bit away from the ring, and Clarke nearly tumbles over him in her distraction, feeling the heat rise to her cheeks when the big man raises a knowing eyebrow.

Aden, for his part, is panting heavily, sweat running down the sides of his neck and face. His aunt has him on the defensive, backing up two steps for every one she strides forward, shooting desperate glances over his shoulder to make sure he doesn’t trip on anything. Alexandria calls out commands to him as they go, barking out an order shortly before lunging forward, Aden barely lifting his sword in time to parry hers. She spins underneath their upraised swords and lays her second blade gently across his ribs, tapping him. Clarke watches as the young man hangs his head in shame, only to perk back up at a few words from Alexandria, raising his blade again. She can’t hear what they’re saying, but she understands the spirit of the exercise. Alexandria is training him for war.

Clarke wonders if it has anything to do with her Amazons. She hasn’t been privy to Alexandria’s thoughts on the matter – things have been tense between them since the scene in the throne room days earlier – but the servants have been whispering that the Empress went in late last night for a war council meeting and emerged this morning in a fine fury. Watching her, Clarke wonders in at least part of this exercise with Aden is a result of that meeting. If Alexandria has some news of war with the Iceni, it would make sense that she’d want to prepare her heir.

When Aden stumbles backwards in response to her next pressing attack, nearly falling to the ground, Alexandria calls a halt to the practice. She reaches out to steady the boy, then claps her hand on his shoulder. Whatever she says, it’s encouraging, because Aden’s disappointed scowl turns into a bright, no-holds barred grin that takes up the entirety of his face. The boy straightens his shoulders and bounds over towards the edge of the ring where she and Gustus are waiting.

“Did you see that, Uncle?” He asks Gustus, shaking the sweat from his hair. “Mother said I’ve made great improvements since the last time.”

Gustus glances sideways at Clarke, wide eyes indicating that he’s clearly surprised at the boy’s informality in her presence. He gives Aden a hearty smile of his own, gruff voice booming out his praise. “You’ll make a fine warrior yet, Aden au Augustus, mark my word.”

The boy straightens up to his full height, his grin stretching even wider, and looks over his shoulder to Alexandria, who has come closer. She’s breathing just a bit heavier than normal, and now that she’s closer, Clarke can make out a faint sheen of sweat on at the edges of her hairline. Alexandria’s mossy eyes lock with hers, but Clarke doesn’t look away at being caught staring. The taller woman doesn’t smile, exactly, but Clarke can read her pleasure at Clarke’s presence in her eyes.

It’s a relief to know that Alexandria still wants to see her after the exchange in the throne room the other day. Clarke hasn’t known how to approach her, aware of the enormity of what Alexandria had done for her by forgoing a traitor’s death for Maya. She’s still having trouble buying the Empress’s excuse of wanting to show goodwill to the Skaikru. Clarke knows well enough that her people aren’t important enough on their own to garner such personal attention from the Empress of Rome. It makes her think that part of what Alexandria had done was for Clarke herself. She doesn’t have words to describe the way her emotions clash together when she thinks of that. Gratitude, tempered by sorrow at the fact that Maya has to die at all. Betrayal, from her Amazon. Guilt, for being such an ineffective leader that Maya had to resort to trying to kill the Empress herself. Pride in herself for thwarting the attempt. Doubt that it was the right thing for her to do. She can barely think lately for all the _feeling_ inside her, and the surge of hope that she gets when she sees Alexandria does nothing to calm the storm.

Gustus clears his throat, and the women both look at him, Alexandria seeming to notice him for the first time. “Gustus,” she says, and though her tone is measured, there’s a bite so sharp it could cut glass underlying it. “You’re late.”

He shifts on his feet. Clarke wonders if things have been tense between these two as well since the judgment in the throne room. “My apologies, Empress. I was held up unexpectedly.” A pause, and he glances at Clarke. “I met with Clarke of the Skaikru on the way here. She mentioned she had something she wanted to speak with you about.”

Alexandria continues to glare at Gustus until Aden, next to her, lets out a slight chuckle at the sight of his burly uncle being so thoroughly intimidated by a woman half his size. His eyes widen almost comically when Alexandria turns her gaze on him, and he half raises his hands in self defense as she barks, “Thank you, Aden. Go and clean up for dinner.”

Shoulders visibly slumping in relief, Aden dashes off to do as he’s told. To Gustus Alexandria says, “You can wait here. I’ll have need of you once Clarke and I are done with our conversation.” She sheathes her swords, which until now she has been holding in both hands, and adds, “I expect you to be at your best, Gustus.”

He bows, fist to chest, and Alexandria looks back at Clarke, who’s been watching with thinly veiled nervousness. Perhaps now isn’t the best time to talk to Alexandria. But the Empress is looking at her expectantly, and so she steps inside the makeshift ring, following where Alexandria walks to a few feet away from Gustus, private but probably still within earshot unless they mutter. Across the ring, her Praetorians, Octavia au Aquilli among them, practice in their own training ring, and she raises her voice lest the sounds of swordplay drown it out.

“I wanted to thank you,” she says, hating herself for how nervous she sounds. Has Alexandria always had that jawline? There’s a wisp of hair escaping from her braid and it’s fallen just to brush the bottom of the Empress’s jaw, leaving Clarke helpless against the way her eyes seem fixed to the spot. _Get it together, branwada_ , she rebukes herself. _You’re here to help your people_.

Alexandria is looking at her expectantly, though Clarke can see that the corner of her mouth is twitching just a bit, as if the Empress can read her thoughts. She clears her throat. “For Maya. I… thank you for your leniency with her. I know that must have been difficult for you.”

Green eyes turn serious as the Empress dips her head. “You are welcome, Clarke. But do not trouble yourself over the consequences of my actions. Those are mine alone to bear.”

She blinks. Alexandria’s words may be comforting, but her delivery is almost dismissive. She tries again. “Still. I remember what you told me about Costia’s father. I know what you did, sparing Maya from a death at Tarpeian Rock. You honor me.”

Alexandria’s fingers twitch, but she keeps her hand at her side. Clarke wonders what she is feeling, if she is as impassive in this moment as her expression would suggest. The barest of nods. “You’ve saved my life twice now, Clarke. The least I could do in return was grant your warrior leniency. Even if her crime _was_ treason against me personally.”

Clarke can accept this. It sounds more reasonable than her given excuse of goodwill towards the Skaikru, at any rate. It’s merely the Empress returning a favor. The businesslike tenor of the conversation is helping to clear her head, to free her from whatever influence seeing Alexandria fighting and in armor has exerted on her mind.

“So you didn’t just give up a massive amount of political capital to make nice with my people?” She asks, giving the Empress a wry grin. It earns a twitch of the lips from Alexandria, and Clarke counts the attempt at humor successful. “Empress,” she continues, hoping that Alexandria is relaxed enough to hear what she has to say. “What Maya did was wrong, but I understand why she did it.”

Alexandria shuts down immediately. Clarke fumbles for her next words. How did she mess this up already? She’s been thinking about making this proposal for days. “What I mean is,” she hurries to correct herself, “I understand what Maya was feeling. Our people are held captive here, forced into labor. It may be paid, but we both know that they have no option but to do the work. She’d seen her queen form a… friendship, of sorts, with the Roman Empress and she thought I wouldn’t help her or any of the rest of our people. She needed revenge for what you’d done to us.”

There is silence for so long that Clarke starts to wonder if Alexandria will just walk away, leave her standing there with her words still hanging in the air. The other woman’s jaw is clenched so tightly that Clarke fears it will break, is already starting to think of how she might be able to treat the swelling when Alexandria finally speaks. “And you, Clarke? Are we friends, as you say? Or do you need revenge for what I’ve done to you and your people, too?”

She wants to smack herself for being so dense about this. Of course Alexandria would take that personally. On some level, Clarke had probably intended it that way. But hurting the Empress isn’t why she’d come here, and she needs to turn this conversation around fast if she’s going to get the Empress to agree to her plan.

“I understand why you did what you did, Alexandria.” She’s surprised to find that she means it. “You were doing what was best for your people. I would have done the same, in your place.” She’s gratified to register the surprise that flickers across Alexandria’s face. She avoids the Empress’s other question. “But it doesn’t change the fact that my people are still suffering. I know that the Skaikru alone aren’t enough to warrant an alliance with Rome, but there are other Amazon tribes. My mother used to be the High Queen, and I have her right of caste.” Storm clouds have been blooming on Alexandria’s face as Clarke has been speaking, but the Amazon has come too far now to give up before she gets the idea out. “Let me go to the other tribes. You’ve tasked me with being your ambassador – let me do that duty in real time. We both know I’m not doing any good kept inside your palace all the time. I think, if I could see the other Amazons, I could convince them that an alliance with Rome –“

“What do you know, Clarke?” Alexandria’s voice is the lowest Clarke has ever heard it, the sound like a growl from the darkness on a lonely night in the forest. She stutters to a halt at the danger in it, unsure of where she misstepped or what could have triggered this reaction in the Empress. When Clarke doesn’t respond, Alexandria raises her voice, repeating the words with bared teeth. “What do you _know_? Why are you suggesting this now?”

At the side of the ring, Gustus has straightened up, his hand straying to his sword. He holds, but Clarke knows that if this situation escalates any more, he will have her caught in his grasp in an instant. She takes a step back from the Empress’s obvious anger. “I told you,” she says, lifting her hands a little in self-defense, only to drop them quickly when the motion makes Gustus shift closer. “I was thinking, after the whole debacle with Maya, that I could help –“

“What aren’t you telling me, Clarke?” Alexandria’s voice has dropped low again, but the Roman is advancing on her, imposing, and the Praetorians have stopped their sparring now, are looking in their direction. The Aquilli is shooting Clarke a look that’s somewhere between exasperated and murderous, and the bigger man with her – Lincoln – is stepping forward in concern. She doesn’t know how this turned so quickly.

Except… _They’re coming_. Oh, gods. Oh _gods_. The war council. Alexandria has been up all night getting some kind of news and Clarke had just assumed it was about the Iceni but what if they’ve discovered Harper and the rest of the Amazons? What if they’ve found the Amazon army and her sisters are marching on Rome? Alexandria has already proven she’ll do whatever it takes to protect her people. And Clarke has just gone and proposed a visit. She has to think through this. If Alexandria locks her up, she won’t be able to help her people in Rome or find out what’s going on outside.

She steels her resolve and takes a step towards the Empress. She’s retreated enough for one day, and letting Alexandria intimidate her will only make the other woman see guilt where there is none. Gustus takes another step towards them at the movement, but Alexandria stops him with an upraised palm. This close, Clarke can feel the other woman’s breath on her face, can see the conflict raging in Alexandria’s eyes as she looks down at her. She fights down the impulse to reach for her. It’s not the time.

“Alexandria,” she says, quietly, calmly, using the voice she’s used to soothe countless distressed patients in her infirmary. She makes the decision without even knowing it. “When Maya tackled me that day, she told me that Harper was coming for me. Well, she said, ‘they’re coming’ and I put it together. If the Amazons are coming for Rome, it’s all the more reason to let me try to bargain an alliance. I don’t want to see my people bleed if there’s something I can do to fix it.”

The Empress regards her with a careful expression, looking as if she’s turning Clarke’s words over in her mind, testing for truthfulness. Clarke can see the moment she accepts the explanation. Alexandria’s shoulders slump minutely, and she suddenly looks as weary as Clarke has ever seen her. Even more weary than she’d looked after being poisoned and drugged. “It’s too dangerous,” she answers, and turns away from the blonde, heading to the side of the ring to grab a dipper of water, taking a long draught before leaning over and splashing some of the water on her face.

Clarke watches her, incredulous. Is she really just dismissing her so easily? “Alexandria,” she half-says, half-yells, and suddenly both Gustus and the Praetorians are within striking distance. Clarke grits her teeth, but she stops moving forward. The brunette looks up and actually has the audacity to look _surprised_ that Clarke is still talking. “My people are out there, and I can unite them if you’ll just –“

“I don’t want them united,” Alexandria answers her, breaking into the long speech Clarke had been about to launch into. She gapes at the other woman.

“You don’t want them…?”

“Not until we know which way their loyalties will fall. If they unite now, they could play into the hands of my enemies. The tribes, at least, are a stronger force together. With you here, working with me, there’s a chance some of the tribes will split off and keep their loyalty to you instead of Diana. I won’t face the entire Amazon nation at once.”

Clarke lets out a strangled sound somewhere between a squeal and a war cry and barrels forward, only to be stopped in her tracks by Gustus. The big man does not harm her, just calmly steps in her path and puts his hands on her shoulders, keeping her away from Alexandria. She shoves him as hard as she can, satisfaction coursing through her when he takes a miniscule step back. She tries to lean around him to look at the Empress, but his bulk is too large.

“Let her be, Gustus,” Alexandria commands, and the big man steps aside, letting her get a full view of Alexandria au Augustus looking at her like she’s lost her mind.

“You,” Clarke growls, wanting to throttle the other woman but acutely aware of Gustus’s hulking form mere inches away. “You would use me against my own people?”

“Clarke, it’s for their own good,” Alexandria tries, spreading her arms. Clarke hates the condescension in her voice. She hates that Alexandria thinks she’s some politician to convince. “I have no desire to wipe out an entire people. This way, at least we give some the chance to survive.”

“If you’d just let me go to them, they could _all_ survive!” Clarke protests, and she doesn’t know how to regulate the volume of her voice anymore. She thinks she will be permanently screaming.

Alexandria’s mouth draws into a firm line. “The answer is no, Clarke. You will stay here, where it’s safe.”

The Amazon scoffs and shakes her head. She glances up at Gustus, who is looking at her with regret in the deep, worry-made lines on his face. She wishes she could spit on Alexandria again, but she can’t risk being thrown back in prison, not now. “I can’t believe I ever started to trust you,” she says bitterly. “I can’t believe I ever thought I was anything to you but a useful slave. I won’t make that mistake again.”

Alexandria’s jaw is working in her mouth and Clarke catches a flash of pure hurt in her aspect before the Empress is back in place and Clarke can barely tell that Alexandria was ever with her at all. “Take her to her rooms,” she instructs Octavia and Lincoln, and Clarke doesn’t fight it as the Aquilli steps forward and takes her arm. She has to save her energy for the fight to come. She doesn’t look back as they escort her from the grounds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plus side, I think we're about halfway through here. I'm guess around 30 chapters. They're mapped out for the most part already, although I always end up adding scenes when I write them, so who knows. I've already written one scene for Chap. 15. Don't kill me for this one - I swear this is the most angst this fic will ever have.


	15. XV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clexa fighting, and then Clexa fluff, mostly. Clarktavia friendship. Gustus being amazing. This chapter was originally supposed to contain a couple of extra scenes (including Ranya), but then it was pushing 10k words and I promised you guys an update today, so.. it will get pushed until next week, when Chap 16 should be out. Thank you so much for your patience - I know this has been a long time coming. Those of you that follow me on Tumblr know, but I've started a new job with pretty demanding hours, and it's been difficult to find time to write. I'm hopeful that since the next few chapters will be plot-heavy and not dialogue-heavy, they'll go quicker. Until then, enjoy!
> 
> Edit: I've been asked to post a link to my Tumblr here, and you guys, I'm RelicKru, okay? I'm way too old to know how to do that. Just: it's https://jaimeajamais.tumblr.com, if you're interested. Literally the best I can do.

“You don’t have to follow me, _Praetor_ ,” Clarke spits at Octavia as she and Lincoln follow the blonde down the palace’s corridor, both Praetorian guards having long given up on physically holding the Amazon queen in favor of simply flanking her, herding her towards her rooms.

 

There’s a ferocity in the blonde’s eyes that Octavia has never quite seen before – not on the battlefield that first time they met, not during their fight in the Empress’s throne room when Clarke had spit on Alexandria, and not during their scuffle afterwards, when Octavia had mistaken Clarke’s headlong sprint for the Empress after the Iceni attack as an act of aggression and tackled the Amazon to the ground. She’d developed a sort of grudging respect for Clarke after that incident, one which had only grown in the weeks after as she observed the other woman’s skill with healing.

 

But despite being Queen of one of the most fearsome Skaikru tribes, Clarke has never, not for one moment, intimidated Octavia. Her mother, Abbinia – that woman had come charging out of the dust of the battlefield, spear flashing in the sun and defiance blazing in her eyes as she rode out to meet her Roman attackers. She had fought like a wild animal, her skill so intrinsic to her being that her spear had moved as an extension of the warrior herself, like an extra limb. Octavia had felt a moment of fear in facing the Amazon High Queen that she hadn’t felt since her first year in the legion as a lowly legionnaire.

 

She’s never thought of Clarke as anything like her mother – had not even connected the two until after she’d overheard Clarke’s warriors whispering on the march back to Rome, heads bowed together as if that would shield their conversation from prying Roman ears. But here, now, blonde curls whipping around her face as she spins on her heel, advancing on Octavia, lips pulled back in a feral sneer, gaze hard as chipped ice, Clarke looks every inch her mother’s daughter. It is harder than Octavia would like to hold her ground in the face of such an onslaught.

 

But Lincoln is there, beside and slightly behind her, his unseen presence radiating the calm she’s annoyed to find herself needing in this moment. She draws herself up to her full height, which is still shorter than Clarke by an inch or so, and looks the other woman in the eye as best she can. “The Empress commanded me to take you,” she answers simply, as if that is all there is to it. It is, in her mind.

 

Clarke clearly disagrees, her lips pulling back even further in a snarl. “Well _the Empress_ doesn’t command _me_ ,” she answers, and Octavia doesn’t miss the way the corner of Clarke’s mouth twitch around the honorific, as if she literally has to force the title past unwilling lips. “And you can tell her that I don’t need a nursemaid.”

 

Octavia simply shrugs. “You can tell her yourself, when you see her next. Until then, I am to take you to your chambers.” She gestures past Clarke, willing the other woman to heed Octavia’s reasonable tone and return to her trek through the palace.

 

It doesn’t work. Clarke snorts, a flush rising in her cheeks. “I don’t have anything to say to that uptight, self-righteous –“

 

“Careful,” Octavia interrupts with a growl, feeling her own anger start to well up within her at the insults to her liege. Behind her, Lincoln shifts forward, and she can tell without looking at him that he isn’t happy about the way Clarke is speaking of the Empress, either.

 

“Condescending, selfish, lying b–” Clarke continues, and Octavia has heard enough. She bares her teeth, a snarl rippling through her as she grabs Clarke by the front of her tunic and slams her back against the wall, gratified by the grunt that escapes the Amazon queen as her breath is knocked out of her.

 

Leaning forward and up on her toes so that she’s looking Clarke directly in the eye, Octavia sneers, “That’s enough! As much as I would love to take you to a practice ring and teach you to show the _proper_ respect for the Empress of all Rome, I have orders not to harm you. So _shut up_ before I lose control and have to explain to the Empress why I defied her orders and beat you to the underworld and back!”

 

Clarke is struggling against the hold, blonde hair coming loose from its braids as she pushes back against Octavia. The Roman is smaller, but she is also stronger and her anger only reinforces her strength. Still, the futility of Clarke’s efforts doesn’t seems to dissuade the blonde from trying until Octavia mentions her orders. The blonde suddenly stiffens and her forehead creases in confusion. Seeing the change, Octavia relaxes her hold cautiously, alert for any sign that the Amazon will strike.

 

But Clarke doesn’t seem interested in returning to the fight, instead staring at Octavia as if she can see through the Praetorian to get to the answers inside her mind. When Clarke speaks, she is quiet, almost tentative. “You have orders not to hurt me?” she asks, squinting down at Octavia, who has returned to her usual footing. “From the Empress? Why?”

 

Octavia sighs heavily and lets the Amazon go, removing her arm from across the other woman’s chest and taking a step back. She looks over her shoulder at Lincoln, certain that she does not want him here for this part of the conversation. “Lincoln, can you go report to the Empress that Clarke of the Skaikru is secure, but will be delayed in returning to her rooms? I can take it from here.”

 

The tall man cocks his shaved head, looking unsure. “She is stronger than she looks, Octavia,” he says uncertainly. “I do not think it wise –“

 

She cuts him off, pushing down her instincts and turning towards him, away from the Amazon at her back. Clarke is not a threat to her, even if the other woman does decide to attack. “Please, Lincoln,” she says, looking up into his deep, chocolate brown eyes, willing him to understand. “I need some time.”

 

He looks as if he wants to argue further, but bows his head and leaves, heading back in the direction from which they’d come. She turns back to Clarke to find the blonde staring at her curiously, blue eyes darting back and forth between her and Lincoln, realization starting to dawn on her face. Great. The last thing Octavia needs is this woman figuring out about whatever it is she and Lincoln have been doing. They haven’t put words to action just yet, but Octavia’s insistence about not being distracted from her duties is slowly crumbling in the face of the gentle man’s patient, caring attention.

 

She clears her throat. “It is not my place to discuss this with you, Amazon,” she begins, and watches the interest in Clarke’s gaze shift from Lincoln to herself. Good.

 

“But the Empress gave me the order soon after our altercation in the throne room when the Iceni attacked. I think she was worried that I might try to harm you when she was unable to be there to put a stop to it. It’s why I left you alone the _second_  time I came upon you standing over my Empress’s prone body.” She says the last with a pointed stare and a wry grin, causing the beginnings of a smirk to form on Clarke’s face. “As for the why –” she shrugs, feeling uncomfortable with discussing her Empress’s motivations with anyone, let alone someone who the Empress clearly holds affection for. “Do you really need me to tell you?”

 

Blonde hair sweeps into her face as the Amazon looks down at the ground, keeping her gaze there for several seconds without answering the Roman’s question. “I might,” she admits, looking anywhere but at Octavia. “One minute I think she’s starting to come around, to finally start to trust me, but the next she’s saying something like _that_ , admitting to using me against my own people like some sort of pawn and I just –,” she huffs out an angry breath. “I don’t know how to take it. She treats me like I’m some sort of precious thing, orders you to protect me and not to hurt me and I know it’s supposed to feel like she cares, but it just feels like a prison. I am a _Queen_ , Octavia. And I am failing. I can’t even get to my own people!”

 

Octavia gapes at her, unsure of how to respond. Is the woman asking her for romantic advice? She hadn’t been sure that the relationship between the Amazon and the Empress had been anything more than professional, but she’d suspected. After weeks of guarding the Empress, she has seen the difference between the way Alexandria treats her conquests and the way she reacts to Clarke. She’d wondered if there was something more there.

 

But why would Clarke confide in her, of all people? Days ago she and Clarke would have happily killed each other, and it wasn’t so long ago that they had actively tried to do just that. Now they were what – friends? Confidants? Still, she does not like to see the strain in her Empress that Alexandria was showing earlier, and if she can do something to help… “The Empress is a complex woman with many responsibilities,” she tries, looking hopefully at the Amazon to see if she can get away with something vague in answer.

 

“Don’t give me that ‘the Empress is too complicated to understand’ horseshit,” Clarke snaps, and Octavia feels her hope for an easy out start to fade. “I _know_ who she is. I _know_ it’s complicated. It still doesn’t explain how she can be so hot and so cold at the same time!”

 

Octavia tilts her head to the side, eyeing the Amazon out of the corner of her eye. “Listen, Clarke. You and I haven’t always gotten along, and there are many, many good reasons for that,” she adds hurriedly, watching the Amazon start to puff up at the sentiment. “But I’ve come to respect your healing skill and the way you stand up for what you believe in. So I’ll tell you the truth, as much as I know it.” She pauses, tries to find her words.

 

“The Empress _is_ a complicated woman,” she begins, and at Clarke’s annoyed roll of the eyes, she continues, “But Alexandria is not. She cares for you. You do not know the danger you would be in if she granted your request to meet with your Amazons as you’d asked. There are other enemies near to Rome, other armies. There is no guarantee that you would even reach your people before being captured or killed by another faction. You say you know she is protecting you, but do you? Do you know what she did for you by sparing your warrior after that same warrior tried to kill her? Do you know what it means that she stood up to Gustus for you, that he even _tried_ to question her in the first place? Everything Alexandria does is public, Clarke, and all of it has consequences. She put herself and her position in grave danger just to avoid taking anything else from you. Her nobles will see the leniency of that sentence and think her weak. They will start up again about her being a woman without the stomach to do what is necessary to protect Rome. They will forget her years of successful military service and the brutality she dealt out to keep her throne after Augustus died. They will ignore her warnings and words, and be slower to send troops to the Empire’s aid. They will start testing her limits, and she will be forced to respond all the more harshly lest she prove them right about her weakness. There are enemies all around without, and you’ve just handed her another battle to wage within her own Empire.” She shakes her head, exasperated.

 

Clarke’s mouth is hanging open. The confident expression she’d been wearing at the beginning of Octavia’s little speech, her clear desire to defend herself or perhaps her knowledge, is gone replaced by a growing horror. “I –“ she begins, and stops herself. A beat, and then, “I didn’t know.”

 

Octavia ducks down, catches Clarke’s eyes so the other woman can read the meaning in her own. “But Alexandria _did_. She knew, and still she would take on another personal battle to spare you pain. She must think she can handle the fallout – I do not think she would willingly jeopardize Rome – but she knew this would cause her difficulty.” She spreads her arms, points to herself. “She assigns her own _Praetors_ to guard you, Skaikru Queen. No other guest, slave or Queen, is granted the same honor. If Alexandria is telling you not to go to your people because the danger is too great, then you must believe she is telling you the truth.”

 

Clarke shakes her wryly. “Just not the _whole_ truth,” she laments, but raises a hand to stave off Octavia’s frowning objection. “I hear you, _Praetor_ ,” she adds, giving Octavia a grateful nod. “And I will think on what you’ve said. Thank you for being so forthright with me.”

 

At that, she turns and resumes the walk to her chambers, making her way through the maze of hallways to the wing next to the Empress’s, where she’d been moved after the Iceni attack so she could be closer if the Empress needed any medical attention.

 

Octavia is silent most of the way, wondering if she did the right thing by being so honest with Clarke. While she is sure that Alexandria would not like the details of her personal feelings being shared with Clarke, Octavia is equally sure that she cannot endure much more of these two circling each other like combatants instead of the lovers they were clearly meant to be. If her Empress cannot stop sabotaging herself long enough to tell Clarke how she really feels, then Octavia will do it for her. It is, after all, her job to protect Alexandria. No one said that protection had to end at physical harm.

 

As they pause in front of Clarke’s door, Octavia finds herself glancing back down the hall in the direction Lincoln had gone. “Sometimes, Clarke of the Skaikru,” she says softly, “We must put aside our own feelings to tend to our duty.” She shifts, bringing her gaze back to the Amazon queen. “But I do not believe this is one of those times.”

 

\--------------------------------------

 

Lexa looks after Clarke for a long moment after the Amazon storms off, escorted by two of Lexa’s Praetorians. She thinks about going after her; thinks about trying to explain more, but the anger of the fight hasn’t left her veins and it’s mixing with the buzzing feelings of anxiety and helplessness that the morning’s news had brought. It’s worse now, actually, compounded by her guilt at the way she’d spoken to Clarke and the shock of Clarke’s news.

 

 _She knew_. She knew that the Amazons were out there, were congregating, knew that they’d be coming for their Queen. Coming for Rome. Lexa doesn’t know what she was expecting or why she would have thought Clarke would tell her sooner. The other woman has her own people to protect, her own goals that contradict Lexa’s. It’s frankly amazing that Clarke even told her at all. Did she think a few stolen kisses would erase all the enmity between them? Would mean that they _trusted_ each other?

 

Lexa shakes her head, blows a frustrated breath out through her nostrils. The things Clarke had said… about her people needing revenge, about Clarke herself only being useful to Lexa. About Clarke being her slave. How much of that did she believe? How much is actually true?

 

Thoughts blur together until they become one mass of confusion behind her eyes, throbbing and distracting her. She needs something else to focus on. Lifting her head, she sights Gustus across the training ring, regarding her with a mixture of disapproval and concern. He will have to do.

 

Her _Comes Domesticorum_ opens his mouth to say something, no doubt to scold her, but before he can get the words out Lexa is tossing him one of the blunted practice blades, barely allowing him time to lift it before she charges at him. Gustus is one of the better swordsmen she has seen – there’s a reason he was elevated to head of her household guard, after all – and he acquits himself well, catching the blade one handed and dancing off to the side so that the momentum of Lexa’s charge, instead of being an advantage against an unready opponent, now becomes a hindrance as she is forced to waste precious seconds trying to slow herself and turn. Gustus comes at her back, unwisely open for a moment, but she twists just in time to catch the edge of her blade on his and send it skittering away with a screech of metal on metal.

 

He takes a step back, reevaluating, and she uses the time to face him again, trying to remind herself to be more careful this time. Gustus paces and she follows him, both Romans making a careful semicircle around each other, back and forth. Until Lexa hears Clarke’s voice in her mind again, hears the disenchantment in her words, and she lunges forward with a growl of rage, trying to silence the Amazon in her head.

 

Gustus’s eyes widen just a bit, registering his surprise, but he gives ground with intention, his sword out in front of him, responding to every one of her increasingly erratic movements with one of his own. Lexa, usually a deliberate, patient fighter, feels her frustration at herself growing as the bout stretches on, irritated both that she can’t seem to finish the fight and that she can’t seem to get her emotions under control. She knows that victory is tied to her ability to regulate herself – her thoughts, movements, and feelings. She can’t seem to get a grip on any of it right now, and instead of motivating her to pause and try to rectify the situation, it’s merely making her angrier.

 

Reckless, she tries a feint to Gustus’s side, spinning when the big man blocks it and trying to sweep low, towards his knees. He steps back, avoiding the sweep, and his elbow comes up to clip her in the chin hard. Her teeth clack together and the resulting pain has her seeing red, whirling on him in fury.

 

“I know what you’re doing, Lexa!” Her guard’s voice is loud, a near shout, and it still scarcely makes it through the haze of her ire. She grits her teeth and drops into a defensive stance, waiting for him to come to her this time.

 

“I don’t want to talk about it, Gustus,” she answers, hearing the commanding note in her own voice. That should settle it, should have him leaning down and rushing her, but he settles back on his heels instead, giving every indication that he has no intention of continuing the fight.

 

“Tough, little lioness,” he answers, and has the nerve to look unfazed when a guttural snarl rips through her. “I know what you’re doing, and this –“ he points back and forth between them with the tip of his sword – “is not helping.”

 

Lexa stabs her swords into the dirt with more force than is strictly necessary to keep them upright, hands coming down to brush the dirt off her breastplate and skirt. She doesn’t look up at him as she bites out, “I’m doing what is necessary, Gustus. I’m protecting Rome.” Moments pass as she stares at the ground, willing Gustus to walk away and leave her to her anger. As much as she tries to grasp it, she can feel it slipping away, emptying her body of all emotion save weariness and doubt. She doesn’t want this lecture – not from him, not right now.

 

Predictably, Gustus either can’t read minds or doesn’t care to cede to her will, because he takes a long step closer, bringing them to just a few yards away from each other, making Lexa’s head snap upwards at the sudden change in position. She curses her warrior’s reflexes for bringing them eye to eye, and then, noting the slight smirk on Gustus’s face, curses them even more, knowing this was exactly what he intended.

 

But it’s gone as quick as it came, Gustus seeming to realize that now is not the time for levity. When he speaks, his voice is as serious as she’s ever heard it, a quiet phrase barely heard above the light breeze of the day. “You’re protecting yourself. And you’re pushing her away.”

 

She stiffens, pulls back, but he moves closer. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she insists, but the fight has gone out of her. She knows her uncle is right. She’s even been doing it intentionally, on some level – trying to close herself off to the pain of Costia’s betrayal and closing the door on Clarke in the process.

 

Gustus speaks, and Lexa thinks perhaps she was wrong after all about him being able to read minds. “Clarke is not Costia, Lexa. She cares for you, that’s clear enough in the way you two look at each other. And no one fights like that with someone they don’t care about.” He raises his hand, places it on her shoulder. “I have known you since you were a babe, little lioness. Your feelings are written as plain as any scroll I’ve ever read.”

 

Lexa bows her head, keeping her eyes away from her uncle’s face lest he read anything more in them. She knows she is losing the battle to keep her feelings for Clarke at bay. Despite her best efforts, she cannot stop the way her heart stutters and skips a beat whenever the Amazon is near, nor can she fight the urge to protect the other woman from harm. “I can’t just let her go out there, Gustus,” she sighs.   “It’s dangerous, both for Clarke and for Rome. What if she does unite them, and they move against Rome together?”

 

It is a real concern. But Gustus simply shakes his head, squeezing her shoulder once before stepping back. She takes it as the rebuke it is. “That’s not what you’re worried about,” he argues, giving her a stern look. “It may be part of it, but that’s not why you’re pushing her away. You’re afraid. You let Costia slip in under your guard, and you got hurt. You’re afraid that if you let Clarke in, she will do the same.”

 

Lexa starts at her uncle’s blunt words. Gustus has ever been a wise councilor, but he generally speaks to her with a little more deference than this. She eyes him speculatively, wondering if those conversations over wine with Clarke have endeared the woman to her uncle, too. “Even if that were true,” she replies, and at the way the smug smile starts to spread across her uncle’s face, adds, “And I’m not saying that it is – what I said earlier is true as well. I have to think of my people first. I have a responsibility to safeguard this Empire.”

 

Gustus heaves a sigh, knowing that he’s lost. Trying to argue personal feelings over duty and responsibility with Lexa will never get him anywhere. Instead, he says only, “At least go talk to her. She deserves to know what you’re thinking.” He’s right, and she nods to tell him so, though she doesn’t relish the idea of having that particular conversation with Clarke.

 

“And Lexa?” He adds, seeing that the conversation is about to be over. “Being Empress doesn’t mean you have to be alone. You must be careful, yes – but you don’t have to give up every part of yourself to Rome. You’ll be a much better leader of men if you’re happy and satisfied with your own life.”

 

Lexa frowns, isn’t sure she agrees. What does her own happiness have to do with ruling an Empire? But she doesn’t want to talk about this anymore, so she humors him. “I’ll think on it, Gustus. And I will go to Clarke, later. For now, we have a match to finish,” she answers, gesturing at the sword he’d so casually dropped to the ground. It’s the best he will get, and he knows it. He picks up his sword from the dirt and waits only until Lexa has plucked up her own before attacking.

 

\---------------------------

 

Two candlemarks later, Lexa finds herself standing outside Clarke’s door with her fist upraised, about to knock. She’d taken some time after her sparring match with Gustus to clean up, wincing at the bruising along her ribs and jaw from the match. She’d been considerably more focused after her talk with Gustus, but the man had seemed intent on reminding her of the consequences of her earlier lack of focus. She knows, as her _Comes Domesticorum_ , that he is reminding her that his job will be considerably easier if she can protect herself. Recent events have probably given him some cause for concern on that front. And as her uncle, his concern bleeds from the realm of the professional to the personal with alarming ease.

 

She does not know – or rather, will not let herself acknowledge – why she felt the need to dress up for Clarke. She’s wearing a deep green tunic, similar to the one Clarke had chosen for her the first time she’d healed her in her own chambers. Her toga is cream and finely woven of strong silk, clasped together with a well-wrought golden brooch in the shape of a rearing lioness. A gift from Gustus, and one she prays will give her strength. She has foregone a cloak, the purple of the Empress and the martial red of Rome seeming too formal, too professional for an occasion where she is trying to simply be herself. She wants Clarke to see Lexa tonight, not the Empress of Rome. She will have to show her both, of course – she cannot separate the two halves of who she is – but she’s hoping that a softer look will help the other woman forgive her for her harsh words earlier. She’s even dismissed her guard for the night, wanting them to be truly alone.

 

With not a little trepidation, she lets her closed fist fall against the door. Clarke answers at the first knock, and Lexa cannot read the expression on her face when the young Amazon realizes who is at her door. It’s not surprise, exactly, but it’s not the anger that Lexa had expected, either. Clarke’s brow is crimped, her azure eyes searching Lexa’s in that analyzing way she has. She’s leaning towards Lexa, but her arms are crossed, and Lexa does not know how to read the contradictory position.

 

She also does not know what to say. Why had she thought this would be a good idea? Clarke is still studying her, her eyes raking over Lexa’s form with such intensity that speaking, breaking the silence, seems like an unforgiveable offense. Though her instincts scream at her not to, scream at her to turn and flee the uncomfortable situation, she tries to open herself up as widely as possible to Clarke’s scrutiny, hoping to communicate her remorse for the earlier confrontation and her inability to retreat from it at the same time. She doesn’t know how long it is that they stand like this, staring at each other, before something in Clarke’s face shifts and suddenly her eyes are no longer on Lexa’s but lower, first on her lips and then down, down until Lexa feels warmth start to spread through her body at the heat in Clarke’s gaze.

 

She wants nothing more than to shoulder her way through the door and take the Amazon in her arms, show her all the pleasures that Lexa has learned to give over the years, all the ways she has learned to touch and move and claim a woman. But now is not the time, and she struggles to retain control of the situation, knowing that if she doesn’t speak now she is likely to lose the opportunity. Clearing her throat, Lexa takes a tiny step forward, raising a hand to reach for Clarke but then thinking better of it, bringing it to rest on her opposite arm instead.

 

The gesture makes her look vulnerable, she knows, but she leaves it there anyway. “Clarke, I –“

 

But Clarke is turning away, back into her room, leaving the door open behind her in invitation. Lexa takes a hesitant step forward but hovers near the doorway, ready to make a quick escape or perhaps just unwilling to put herself even further into Clarke’s already too-strong control.

 

“Why did you get me these?” The Amazon’s words don’t register at first, and Lexa blinks in confusion, the spell broken as she struggles to remember what Clarke could possibly be referencing. Then Clarke moves, and Lexa can see the charcoals, inks and scrolls lining the bed behind her. The charcoals were the best quality available in the city, though Lexa has sent for some from Egypt said to be even better. She’s also obtained inks in every hue and color, from the common ocher reds to the almost prohibitively expensive purples, obtained only from the crushed shells of mollusks in the distant Mediterranean. Gustus had mentioned in passing that Clarke had an interest in such things, and Lexa had arranged almost immediately to have them gathered as a gift for the Amazon Queen. It had been meant to be a gift of gratitude for Clarke’s having saved Lexa from Maya’s assassin. She’d ordered them days ago, though, and had forgotten about the gesture entirely in the muddle of the morning's war conference and the events after.  She had not known they would be delivered today. Did Clarke think these an apology for her earlier behavior? Is that why she does not seem angry now?

 

She shakes her head, not wanting Clarke’s apparent leniency towards her to be based on a misconception. “Gustus mentioned that you might like them,” she answers honestly, moving towards the other woman. “But Clarke, I did not obtain these today. Several are expensive and difficult to procure – it took my man many days to find them. I’d intended them as a thank you for saving my life.”

 

Something flickers and dims in Clarke’s eyes. Lexa finds herself missing the glimmer that was there – she does not dare to think it was hope – as Clarke nods formally. “A thoughtful gift,” she praises, though there is little warmth in it. “I appreciate the trouble you went through to get me this.”

 

Lexa frowns. This is not going how she wanted it to. She takes a step forward, wills herself not to reach for Clarke. She needs to try again. “Clarke, listen. About earlier today. I’m – I’m sorry, for the way I spoke to you.” She almost surprised to hear the words pass her lips, though they were what she came to say. She’s not accustomed to apologizing for her actions. She’s not accustomed to apologizing for anything, ever.

 

Clarkes does not speak, and Lexa feels the inexplicable urge to fidget – something she has not felt since she was a young girl. The blonde is simply waiting, an eyebrow raised, clearly expecting Lexa to say something more. The young warrior sighs inwardly. She’s going to have to explain herself. “I fear that you do not know all of the implications of the favor you have asked,” she says slowly, but rather than making Clarke defensive, her words seem to raise only recognition and resignation in Clarke’s features. She keeps going, puzzled. “There are many hostile forces in the countryside right now, Clarke. Your Amazons are only a small part of the current threat to my people.”

 

Clarke does stiffen at this, but Lexa reaches out to her, letting her palm grasp Clarke’s arm loosely at the elbow and slide down to briefly squeeze her hand. She’s going to let go, she’s sure she will, but a reciprocal pressure on her own palm stops her, and she looks down in shock to see Clarke’s fingers threading through her own.

 

The other woman is close, so close, and though they are still technically in conflict, though Lexa remains unforgiven, she cannot stop herself from inching ever closer, leaning in towards Clarke until their foreheads touch. She swipes her thumb lazily over the back of Clarke’s palm, reveling in the soft exhale of the other woman’s breath at the movement, the way Clarke’s eyes flutter closed. It would be so easy to lean in and kiss her at this moment, to leave behind all thought of traitors and armies and war and lose herself in the arms of the woman she’s coming to care for despite herself.

 

But Lexa knows that they need to have this conversation if they’re to have any chance at something real. She needs Clarke to see every part of her, to know exactly what it is she’d be getting herself into. She needs Clarke to accept that Lexa will always be looking beyond herself, beyond Clarke and her people, to Rome as a whole. That Clarke will be the most important person in the world to Lexa – and that it won’t be enough. That Lexa will never be able to choose her or her people over Lexa’s own. She isn’t sure if any relationship could survive such knowledge. But despite what she’d said to Gustus, despite what her own head is telling her, she feels the need to try. After all, the chances that Clarke will accept her after knowing such things are miniscule anyway. There is nothing to lose in the attempt.

 

She pulls away reluctantly, but leaves her hand in the other woman’s grasp. Clarke is looking at her in bewilderment, blinking and shaking her head as if to clear it from some fog. Lexa feels a smile tugging at the corner of her lips as she tugs on the smaller woman’s hand, urging her towards the door.

 

“Walk with me, Clarke of the Skaikru.”

 

\--------------------------------

 

Alexandria leads her through the maze of the palace’s hallways, and despite her earlier misgivings, Clarke finds herself going willingly. She doesn’t know where the Empress is taking her, but Clarke has a feeling that she’s finally going to get some insight into the tangles of confusion that make up the Empress of Rome.

 

Her conversation with Octavia had sapped the anger from her, leaving her only with more questions and a desire to see the Roman Empress sooner rather than later. She hadn’t expected to give the _Praetor_ as much of her inner dialogue as she had, but weeks confined in the palace without an outlet to confess her feelings to had made her recklessly desperate for a friend. The Aquilli was the least likely of all to be filling that role, but something in Clarke recognized something in the other woman. They may be enemies – Octavia was her mother’s killer, after all – but the Aquilli had only been following orders, and Clarke recognized the soldier in her, the need to prove oneself to one’s leaders. Octavia had beaten her when she had the chance, but she had also protected her when Clarke was on the brink of going too far. There was something in her that Clarke respected, despite everything. So she had spilled her soul to the Aquilli, hoped for some sort of understanding, some insight from a woman as close to Alexandria as her own shadow. She’d gotten what she’d bargained for and more from the _Praetor’s_ revelations about her Empress.

 

Seeing the art supplies Alexandria had evidently procured for her only increased her desire to see the other woman. She had been an artist most of her life, and though the Skaikru tribe lived in a somewhat remote area, she’d been able to trade and barter with many of the Greek and Roman merchants when they passed through before the neighboring Roman settlement had been built and her mother had cut off the trade. The charcoals Alexandria had provided had been of fine quality, finer than anything Clarke had even seen before, but the inks… she’d dipped her fingers into most of them, noting the smoothness of the mixture and the deep richness of color. Most inks she’d been able to procure in the past had been heavily diluted, the color only a light tint against the muddy water. It had never been nearly so smooth, either, generally being more of a clay paste than the silky liquid in the pots provided by the Empress.

 

The gift had only further confused her feelings toward the woman. She’d been gratified when Alexandria appeared at her door, having hoped for exactly that for most of the afternoon. She’d expected Alexandria to still be in her practice armor, or perhaps in her Imperial garb, had expected the other woman to try to impress upon her the weight of her position and her rank. Instead, she’d gotten a demure, apologetic Alexandria, undeniably beautiful in a deep emerald tunic that brought out the darker tones of her eyes, freshly washed with her rich brown hair damp and curled about her shoulders. Clarke could barely resist pulling her into her arms and her bed right then. In retrospect, she’s sure that’s exactly what would have happened had Alexandria not suggested this walk.

 

She finds herself grateful for the distraction, for the opportunity to set things a little bit steadier between them. Alexandria is still gripping her hand though, the warmth of it spreading through Clarke’s arm and then the rest of her body, bringing an unguarded smile unbidden to her face. She wipes it away immediately when the other woman finally comes to a halt and turns toward her, not wanting Alexandria to think that everything between them is solved just yet.

 

They’ve stopped in a wide hall lined with a number of pedestals, a display room of some kind. Mementos of war or heroic efforts line the tops of the pedestals – helmets and sword and spears, breastplates and shields and daggers. Clarke frowns, wondering why Alexandria would have chosen such a place to have their conversation. Does she intend to try to intimidate Clarke after all? To prove the prowess of Rome in the martial arts?

 

But Alexandria is smiling at her, that little, secret smile Clarke has only ever seen directed at her. And Costia, actually, but she would not think about that. The brunette tugs on Clarke’s arm, leading her over to a pedestal in the corner of the chamber, almost hidden in the shadow of the flickering torch on the wall. “I thought you might want to see these,” Alexandria says softly. “Your ancestor claimed them, after all.”

 

Intrigued, Clarke leans forward, eyes sweeping over the great ivory tusks on the pedestal before her. “The Calydonian boar,” she breathes, disentangling her hand from Alexandria’s to reach up and run her fingers lightly over the cool ivory. “Legend has it that Atalanta, first Queen of the Amazons, killed this boar when the greatest heroes of the age could not. Meleager gathered over a dozen hunters and she was the only one who could touch it.”

 

There’s awe in her voice, she can tell, and when she turns to look at Alexandria, she sees a similar awe reflected there. But Alexandria is not looking at the tusks, and Clarke feels a heat rising in her cheeks that she cannot contain. “Clarke,” she breathes, and something in her voice is so tender, so desperate, that Clarke feels unmoored, as if she is floating in the air, having lost her connection to the solid earth beneath her feet. “You must know –“ she begins, then falters. “After Costia betrayed me, I thought –“ She stops again, lowers her eyes. There’s a visible struggle going on inside the other woman, and for a moment Clarke can finally see how young Alexandria is, too young to be suffering under the weight of the burdens she bears. She doesn’t know how she hasn’t noticed it before, but Alexandria can’t be more than a couple of years older than Clarke herself.

 

Alexandria takes a deep, shuddering breath and tries again. “I do not wish to keep you from aiding your people,” she says, and Clarke blinks at the sudden shift in subject. Having successfully managed to get her first sentence out, Alexandria seems to gain some confidence, and she squares her shoulders, beginning to pace across the lengths of the room. “But I do have other factions to consider. The Iceni move on Rome, as you know. Boudica has been spotted camped north of Londinium, several weeks away from Rome. Londinium was Celtic territory until very recently, until Augustus’s reign, in fact. My scouts have seen her taking visitors.”

 

Clarke has been following Alexandria’s movements closely, but her focus sharpens at these last words. “What kind of visitors?” she questions, hoping that she is not pushing her luck. The Empress has already been much more forthright with her than she expected.

 

Alexandria sighs, and the youth slips from her like a shadow disappearing into the night. “Your Amazons, for one. One of my scouts was there the day the First Cohort battled the Skaikru. He recognized Harper and one other notable warrior, Diana of the Broadleaf clan. She… wears the mask of the High Queen.”

 

The warrior delivers this news with as much compassion as she can, but little can be done to gentle the blow that hearing it delivers to Clarke. She knew that someone would step up to take the mantle from her mother, and she knew that it couldn’t be her. Diana isn’t even a surprise, honestly, having been second to Abbinia before her death, but _still_. The brutality of the Broadleaf clan is well known. What will Diana turn her people into? What will the Amazons become under her leadership? She feels something like resolve sinking in her gut. It doesn’t matter what Alexandria says. Clarke is going to have to do something to aid her people, and sooner rather than later. The situation is quickly becoming dire.

 

When Alexandria seems satisfied that Clarke is not going to respond to her comments, she continues. “The Iceni have also been visited by Queen Nia of the Visigoths.” Clarke cocks her head, trying to absorb this new information. Visigoths? She has heard of the Ice Queen of the Visigoths, tales of cruelty and depravation, but until now she’d had no knowledge that they might be in conflict with Rome. Sure, border skirmishes were inevitable in a territory this large, but she couldn’t understand why, out of all the threats Alexandria was facing, this particular one made the Empress’s voice drop low and her eyes grow cold.

 

“And you’re worried that the forces will combine against Rome?” Clarke asks hesitantly, not wanting to provoke the anger that she saw in those green eyes earlier. At Alexandria’s short nod, she bulls ahead. “Then I don’t understand why you won’t let me go to my people. Alexandria,” she pleads, using the Empress’s given name in the hope that it will soften the other woman’s resolve, “if you can show me that the Amazons can benefit from uniting with Rome, if we can work out an agreement that will aid both my nation and your Empire, I’m sure I can convince them to fight with you against both the Iceni and the Visigoths if need be. Let me help you in this.”

 

There’s a muscle that’s been working in Alexandria’s jaw as she’s been speaking, and she’s sure she’s not imagining the great effort that it takes the Empress to relax, the tension still showing in her neck and shoulders as the other woman visibly tries to keep herself under control. When she speaks, her voice is strained. “I did not lie when I told you it was too dangerous, Clarke.”

 

The healer opens her mouth to speak, but Alexandria cuts her off with a raised hand. “You are invaluable to… the Empire. As a healer, and a scribe. And as  the Queen of a nation we may yet come to some accord with. I cannot let you risk yourself…” She stops speaking suddenly, shakes her head as if in anger. It does not appear to be directed at Clarke, however, judging by the way the Empress bites her lip so fiercely that Clarke worries it will break the skin.

 

Alexandria seems to come to some sort of decision, because she is turning to face Clarke again, both hands reaching out in front of her to grip the Amazon’s. Clarke thinks that she will kiss her, raises her chin in anticipation, but Alexandria is only pulling her towards the opposite wall, where a large map of the Roman Empire is displayed. Alexandria gestures towards it, looking towards Clarke as if she should understand the point that the Empress is trying to make. When Clarke shakes her head to communicate that she hasn’t really received the message, Alexandria huffs out a breath and drops her other hand, stalking closer to the map.

 

“This,” she says pointing toward a larger spot on the map, “Is Rome.” She moves her finger north, pointing towards a much smaller mark. “And that’s Londinium, south of Brittania.” Sweeping her hand south, she begins narrating along with the movement of her arm. “That’s the Visigoth territory, there. Then, here, to the north and west, Gaul. This is the rest of Italy, and there are Athens and Sparta, which also belong to the Empire. That great territory there is Aegyptus, recently conquered by the first Caesar, and there, to the east of Egypt, you’ll find Armenia, Syria and Mesopotamia. To the west, Lusitania and Mauretania. Your tribe was from here,” she points to an empty space on the map, “And the Broadleaf clan’s territory appears to be over here.”

 

She turns to look at Clarke, piercing green eyes burrowing into the blonde healer. “I have to think of all of these nations, of the people within them, as my own. Rather than leading one tribe or one nation, I lead dozens.” Clarke is unsure of where Alexandria is trying to go with this. Is she trying to make Clarke feel as if she is inferior because her tribe is smaller than the Empire Alexandria leads?

 

The brunette seems to read her disquiet, because she continues quickly, one hand reaching out to place itself on Clarke’s arm to calm the other woman. “Do not fret, Clarke,” she says quietly. “I do not say this to impress you - I say it only so that you know that as much as I care for you, I will never be able to put your people above my own.”

 

It’s a lot of information for one sentence to contain. Alexandria cares for her? She’d hoped, of course – she even thinks she’d known, on some level, but hearing the other woman admit it is another thing entirely. And behind that, the assertion, quiet as an avalanche, that Alexandria would never be able to put Clarke’s needs before those of her people. That she would never come first. Is that enough for her? How could it ever be enough for her?

 

Worry lines crease Alexandria’s brow, and she looks for a moment as if she’s regretting the confession. There’s a light pressure on Clarke’s arm as she draws away, but Alexandria is not yet done speaking. “That is… not unless your people become my own.”

 

Blue eyes dart up to catch green, and Clarke feels something like hope spark inside her as she considers the Empress’s words. “You would take my people as your own?”

 

Alexandria nods, eager now that the idea is taking shape out loud. “The Skaikru territory could become a Roman territory. You would pay taxes and contribute soldiers to Rome, and in return would gain all the rights and privileges of Roman citizens. Protection from my armies, the right to vote in the Empire’s elections, the benefit of Roman engineering and trade. And you’d retain the right to choose your own leaders, subject to the loose governing of Rome.” She pauses, seeing Clarke’s hesitation. “You’d be essentially independent, but you’d have a voice in Roman politics.” A pause. “I can extend the offer to the entire Amazon nation, if you think you can sell it.”

 

Clarke can barely believe what she’s hearing. It’s almost exactly what she’d hoped to pitch to Alexandria this morning, but she hadn’t been able to get far enough to voice the thoughts before the Empress had started in on her. Now, hearing Alexandria coming to these conclusions on her own, she felt herself dizzy with the implications. Had she heard Alexandria correctly?

 

“If… I can sell it?” she echoes, watching the other woman’s face with careful consideration.

 

The Empress looks almost shy as she ducks her head. “I heard your concerns earlier, Clarke. And though I cannot allow you to go out there now, once I subdue the threat that the Iceni and the Visigoths present –“ she pauses, and Clarke does not fail to note that she leaves the Amazons out of the list of enemies, clearly trying not to provoke Clarke. The blonde decides to let it lie, for now.

 

“Once it is safe, I would have you speak to your people,” Alexandria continues, the earnestness in her voice causing a fluttering in Clarke’s belly. “I would have us try to make peace.”

 

Clarke takes a step forward, emboldened by Alexandria’s efforts towards reconciliation. “Us?” She asks coyly, tipping her chin forward once again. “Or our peoples?”

  
Alexandria gives her the slightest hint of a smile, her expression turning almost cocky. “They will be one people soon enough, if all goes according to plan,” she answers, letting her palm rise up to cup Clarke’s cheek.

 

The Amazon lets herself lean into the touch, staring up at the openness in Alexandria’s expression. It’s not enough, exactly – a bit of vulnerability from the Empress, a hope that maybe someday their people will not be at war, that they may have a chance at something permanent – but Clarke will take it for now. She closes her eyes and waits.

 

The kiss, when it comes, is feather-light, Alexandria’s hesitance showing in the way her lips press so gently against Clarke’s own. Too gently, and Clarke leans in further, places her hands on the Empress’s hips and pulls her closer, flush with her own body as Alexandria deepens the contact, emboldened by Clarke’s own eagerness. “Clarke,” she whispers, and the Amazon gasps as Alexandria’s lips find her jaw, and then her neck, tongue sliding down the column of her throat as Clarke gasps and sinks further into Alexandria’s arms, legs feeling suddenly unsteady under Alexandria’s assault.

 

Clarke feels herself being walked backwards, feels the cool stone against her skin as her back hits the wall, and she tilts her head back, enjoying the attention until a high-pitched whimper slips past her own lips. The sound is like cold water splashing over her head, reminding her of where she is and whom she is with. She knows now that she wants this, that she wants the woman in front of her, but she also knows that they are not ready for this, not yet.

 

She pushes Alexandria away gently, touched by the look of concern that graces the Empress’s eyes as she ceases her movements immediately and steps away. “Clarke?” Alexandria questions, pulling her hands back to her own body. “Did I offend you? I did not mean –“

 

But Clarke surges forward and gives her a quick kiss on the lips, hands brushing over Alexandria’s brow and sweeping her loose curls away from her face. “You did nothing wrong, Alexandria,” she consoles, letting her hand slide down over the warrior’s neck, down her shoulder and arm before finally coming to rest on her hip. “I just… want to get to know you a little bit better before we… do anything rash.”

 

Alexandria is smiling now, a hint of color gracing her cheeks, and she nods quickly, once. She leans in and gives Clarke the ghost of a kiss, lips brushing her forehead softly, before grasping the Amazon’s hand once again. “Let me tell you about the rest of the items in this room,” she says, and Clarke finds herself willingly pulled away to her history lesson.

 

\----------------------------------

 

They talk until the torches in the room flicker and threaten to go out, and Alexandria reluctantly offers to escort Clarke back to her room. The Amazon does not hesitate before accepting the offer, and the two walk hand in hand back through the palace to the residential wing. Clarke pauses outside her door, apparently searching for something to say, and Lexa watches her patiently. After several moments, the healer simply says, “Thank you, for tonight. For confiding in me. I hope you know, I… I care a great deal for you, too.”

 

Lexa’s chest constricts at the admission. She raises her hand to cup Clarke’s cheek, looking down into her eyes, losing herself in the oceanic depths there. They look at each other so long Lexa forgets her own name, forgets her place and her title and her people and all she can see is Clarke of the Skaikru looking up at her like she’s the only other person in the world. She doesn’t even realize she’s leaning in until Clarke captures her lips with her own, pulling the two women into a searing kiss, Clarke’s back hitting the door of her room and the two pressing inside, hands fumbling for a purchase on skin under layers of clothes, Lexa shutting the door behind them with her foot even as she presses Clarke deeper into the dark of the chamber, the pair only stopping when Clarke’s knees hit the edge of the bed and they both topple over into the softness of the furs.

 

A thoughtful servant endeavored to light a few oil lamps around the edges of the room, and Lexa can see the dazed humor in Clarke’s face as the Amazon takes in the situation, chest heaving as she struggles to regain her breath. Lexa, hovering above her, manages to also see the humor in their lack of grace, and they both dissolve into quiet chuckles as Lexa pulls back, reaching out a hand to help Clarke sit up as well. “Maybe I should retire for the night,” she offers, somewhat regretfully.

 

But Clarke shakes her head emphatically, surprising Lexa. “I think you should stay.”

 

Lexa draws back in shock, studying Clarke’s expression intently. They’d had a good conversation, a _great_ conversation, and that kiss – but she didn’t know that Clarke was ready for that level of intimacy just yet. She’d never given more than a moment’s thought to the comfort of her previous conquests, not aside from making sure that whatever they were engaging in was consensual, but Clarke was different. Clarke’s comfort mattered to her. She needed Clarke to not only want what was about to happen, but to enjoy it, to _feel_ it. She wanted Clarke to feel the same rush of desire, the same longing urge to touch and take and _need_ that Lexa herself felt when she looked at the blonde Amazon. She could not rush this.

 

For her part, Clarke seemed to understand this. “I’m not asking for sex, Alexandria,” she says bluntly, and Lexa finds herself latching on to the only response she can think of to such a bold assertion.

 

“Lexa,” she answers, surprising herself with her own candor. “My friends call me Lexa.”

 

Clarke looks at her for a long moment, searching. She leans forward and slants their mouths together, the deep kiss leaving Lexa off-balance, feeling as if the other woman had somehow hooked her behind the ankle, leaving her falling quickly to the ground. Clarke pulls away before Lexa can even get her mind into the kiss, can even reciprocate fully, and the Empress of Rome gasps in a breath she didn’t know she was holding.

 

“Lexa,” Clarke answers her, eyes hooded, and at this rate Lexa does not believe for an instant that sex is not on Clarke’s mind. But the blonde merely shifts back and pulls off her tunic and toga, leaving Lexa gaping at the vast expanse of skin on display. Clarke’s body is… amazing. Her alabaster skin is miraculously unmarked, unlike Lexa’s own, smooth skin overlying lithe, corded muscles. Lexa barely has time to glimpse the other woman’s large, firm breasts pushing against the bindings of her chest before Clarke is sliding underneath the blankets, patting the space beside her. “Just stay with me.”

 

It’s several long moments before Lexa’s oversaturated mind can process Clarke’s request, and several more before she can make herself move, pulling her own toga and tunic over her head and sliding into bed behind Clarke. “Is this okay?” she asks as she reaches for the woman next to her, pulling Clarke’s warm body back into her own. She knows her guards will be panicked over her not returning to her own room, knows that showing her favor so openly to the Amazon is an idea so bad it’s bordering on disastrous, but she cannot bring herself to care as the blonde woman nods in her arms and Lexa leans forward to press a kiss against the back of her neck.

  
“Good night, Clarke,” she says, and Clarke sighs and shifts against her, her deep breath elongating her body and making Lexa uncomfortably aware of every place their skin is touching.

 

“Good night, Lexa,” the other woman echoes, and Lexa relaxes as Clarke settles into her embrace, letting herself sink into the darkness of slumber.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary
> 
> Comes Domesticorum - Head of the Empress's household guard
> 
> Purple dye – In Roman times, purple dye was made from the shells of the Murex mollusks native to Tyre in Lebanon. It took over ten thousand crushed shells to make the dye for one Roman imperial toga.


	16. XVI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A year, 16 chapters, and nearly 100k words later, this giant fic is still ongoing and you guys are a big part of that. I've never written anything that I've finished, but I'm pretty sure this is going to break that record thanks to these tiny gay lovebirds and my inability to let them go. Your constant support, comments and kudos, and overall amazingness as readers helps a ton, too. Thank you.

Her bedchambers are on the east side of the palace, and the sun slanting through the windows wakes Clarke earlier than she’d like, pale light blossoming on the insides of her eyelids as if daring her to try to keep them closed. She grumbles internally at the discourtesy of Appollo, but blinks her eyes open slowly anyway. And freezes.

 

Alexandria au Augustus is in her bed. Flashes of the night before come back to her, pieces slotting into place, and she stares at the Empress in wonder as she remembers all that had passed between them. Apparently she’s forgiven Alexandria – she pauses, thinks, in wonder, _Lexa_ – completely, because during the night she’s shifted to a position almost atop the other woman. Her left arm lies draped across Lexa’s bare stomach, palm splayed across the hardened muscles of the other woman’s abdomen, while her right is tucked up under her head, which is just barely touching Lexa’s shoulder. She’s thrown a leg over the Empress of Rome as well, and Clarke’s cheeks heat at the realization that Lexa’s thigh lies almost flush between her own. She’s certain that this was not what she had intended when she had asked Lexa to stay with her last night. Well, almost certain. At least certain that if she’d intended for them to find themselves in such a compromising position, she’d want Lexa to be conscious for it.

 

She doesn’t know when the feelings she was starting to develop for this woman had begun to grow, had evolved from a slow crawl to a jog and to now, it seemed, a headlong, leaping sprint, but she knows that something is happening between them and she doesn’t know if it’s something she should want but it feels like something she might need. Lexa had been right last night to bring up duty to their peoples. Clarke is no less bound by hers. And she knows, just as Lexa does, that if their people cannot unite, cannot make it past the enmity each has developed for the other, that she and Lexa have no future together. Last night, she’d decided that it didn’t matter. That she would take what comfort she could from Lexa while they still belonged only to each other, before Clarke’s inevitable return to her people pulled them apart. She still isn’t sure when that will be, but she knows that she cannot wait for Lexa to resolve the issues with the Iceni and the Visigoths. Those battles could take months, years even, and there is no telling what Diana will have done to Clarke’s Amazons by then. No guarantee that the Romans won’t find themselves in battle with the Amazons by then, and then what would Clarke do? She knows, without a doubt, that Lexa would never let her go back to them if that was the case. She needs to find a solution for this, and sooner rather than later. She does not realize that she has tightened her grip on Lexa, is squeezing the other woman, until the Empress shifts in her sleep, protesting at the too-tight touch on her still-bruised ribs.

 

Strands of light from the morning sun shift across Lexa’s body, highlighting the vast expanse of bare skin on display. Lexa’s still wearing her chest band and her undergarments, but otherwise, she is nude, and though Clarke has seen it before, she marvels all the same. It feels different this way, with Clarke similarly undressed and draped across her, skin to skin and full of the knowledge that she could lean over and kiss this woman awake and Lexa would accept it, would sink into the touch. When did they become this to each other? Despite the bruising mottling her ribs and face, barely visible the night before but now darkened to a deep, angry purple in the cool light of day, Lexa is breathtakingly beautiful. Clarke has always known this, known it from the moment she saw her, known it when the fire of hatred burned hot and black in her belly and in every moment of its cooling since. She knows this is going to be complicated. She knows it’s probably a bad idea, and that it’s dangerous for both of them, but she can’t stop the movement of her hand as it reaches out to trace the line of her bedmate’s jaw, letting her fingers trail gently over the swelling, drift down the column of Lexa’s neck to her collarbone, splay out against the fading scar on her shoulder that would mark the beginning of this – whatever this was – forever.

 

A deep inhale of breath, and then Lexa is straight upright in the bed, flipping them so that her body is atop Clarke’s, pinning the Amazon down. Clarke does not know whether to feel aroused or slightly frightened at the speed of the movement, but she thinks wryly that perhaps she should have remembered the warrior in Lexa before waking her up with a touch. The fierce, wild-eyed stare of the woman above her bears no resemblance to the peace of Lexa’s features in sleep, and Clarke feels almost guilty for pulling the woman away from what must have been a rare opportunity for true rest. 

 

Unable to move her arms, she settles for simply leaning over and placing a gentle kiss to the inside of one of the wrists with such a firm grip on her own, soothing Lexa with a whisper. “It’s me, Lexa.  It’s Clarke.”

 

Recognition dawns only the merest second before guilt flares in Lexa’s eyes, and she releases Clarke immediately, moving to climb off of her. Clarke stills her with two hands to her hips, dragging her back to her earlier position, then lifting a palm and tracing back over Lexa’s jaw where she’d been touching before. “We need to put a compress on this,” she offers, giving Lexa the opportunity to avoid the awkward conversation.

 

Not surprisingly, Lexa is as dense about it as ever. “I’m sorry, Clarke. I did not mean to frighten you, nor did I mean you harm. I am… unused to company in the morning.”

 

A small, dark hurt clutches at Clarke when she thinks of the meaning behind Lexa’s words. She’s used to sleeping with women and then turning them away, she means. Clarke does not know why such a thing would upset her – she had no claim on Lexa before, does not really have one now, and she’s not sure she wants such a thing anyway. She pushes the feeling away, sits up as Lexa backs away from her. To her credit, Lexa seems to realize what she said as well, and the tips of her ears turn pink as the guilt in her eyes intensifies.

 

Clarke needs to clear the air. “Did you sleep well?” she asks, somewhat awkwardly. “I know this is your palace, so of course you own this bed, but it can’t be the same as the one you have in your chambers.”

 

Green eyes are boring into her, Lexa clearly understanding that this is not Clarke’s first topic of choice, but she’s a quick learner and she lets it go. “I slept better than I have in years,” she answers earnestly, and Clarke feels the darkness coiling inside her twist and dissipate. 

 

She can’t stop the smile that ghosts over her lips as she nods. “Thank you for staying with me.” It isn’t exactly what she wanted to say, isn’t the heartfelt gratitude she wants to express for not having to sleep another long night away from her home all by herself, isn’t the recognition she wants to articulate for all the difficulties it will cause Lexa to have done this for her. She doesn’t say that she would give anything to know what’s in Lexa’s mind right now, what she thinks of them, if she thinks they have a chance together. If she wants a chance together.

 

But Lexa seems to understand, anyway, smiling that secret smile she reserves only for Clarke. “Of course, Clarke,” she replies simply. Then, hesitantly, “Can I kiss you good morning?”

 

Clarke doesn’t realize she’s been holding her breath until it all comes out of her at once in an affirmative exhale. “Goddess, yes,” she breathes, and then she is tugging Lexa towards her by her shoulders, the other woman coming willingly as they sink into the kiss, breath mingling and bodies pressing against each other as they melt into the embrace. They kiss for what seems like hours, kiss until the sun has changed angles in the sky, beaming warmth onto their lazy, lavish movements, illuminating their skin as they shift together and apart, their mouths separating only when the need for air becomes too much to ignore. 

 

Lexa is breathing hard when she separates from Clarke, and the Amazon feels a spike of pride that a few (more than a few) minutes of kissing her has done what hours of fighting in the ring cannot. She leans in again, instinctively, her mind incapable of any thought other than the consuming _need_ to feel Lexa’s swollen, kiss-bruised lips against her own, but Lexa pulls back reluctantly, her thumb coming up to brush across Clarke’s cheek before she places a soft kiss there. 

 

“I have to go, Clarke,” she says, and Clarke knows she is not imagining the regret in her voice as the Lexa rises from her bed and reaches for her rumpled clothing. There is no one thing Clarke can point to, no visible shift, but when Lexa turns back around it is Alexandria she faces instead, the Empress sweeping her hair back regally over her shoulder.

 

But there is still a vestige of the woman Clarke is growing to care for in those moss green eyes, because Lexa looks at her almost tenderly as she reminds Clarke that she needs to get ready as well. At Clarke’s inquisitive glance, Lexa’s expression clouds over and the memory hits Clarke like a sudden blow to the stomach. “It is _Dies Martis_ , Clarke. Maya’s execution is today.”

 

\-----------------------------------------

 

Anya au Julii leans forward on the stone bench she is seated on, thumb and forefinger massaging her temple as she listens to the debate below. The _Curia_ is abuzz with the muffled sound of the public just outside the forum of tiered stone risers that the Senators currently occupy, but here, in the inner forum, it is quiet enough that Marcus au Quinctilius can be heard clearly, his voice echoing across the marble chamber as he tries to calm the debate.

 

As _Consul_ , Marcus held the highest position in the Senate and thus was the first to speak this morning. Standing on the marble, intricately-patterned central floor, he’d explained the Iceni threat in his usual calm fashion, letting Senators know of Boudica’s encampment outside Londinium and her apparent intent to march on to Rome. He’d assured them that the Empress was aware and was bringing Roman forces back to the city to face the apparent threat, but that discussion was ongoing as to how to handle it beyond that.

 

It had, predictably, caused an uproar. Anya will never understand the hubris of fat old men claiming to have formed strong opinions about matters of which they have no knowledge. Most of the men around here have no military background to speak of, or if they do it was from the age before Octavian Augustus, where men were promoted through the military ranks based on nobility rather than merit. As the daughter of a highly-ranked general, Anya herself probably had more military knowledge than all these men combined. But as a more junior Senator, she had to wait her turn to speak, and at this rate, it would take the better part of the day for the more senior Senators to tire themselves out.

 

“We should already be in the field,” gruffs Publius au Graccus, a bull of a man with a shocking dearth of both neck and independent thought. He speaks quickly, ignoring Marcus’s attempts to explain for the hundredth time that the Empress is waiting for more troops and intelligence to move against the Iceni. “The Empress wastes our time with her hesitation. We can crush these brutish Celts with the legions we have, and easily!”

 

The _Consul_ scratches at the new growth of his beard, shaking his head. “There are more at large than just the Iceni, as I’ve already explained. The Visigoths –“

 

But Publius cuts him off, earning a shocked look from some of the surrounding Senators. It’s a rare breach of decorum to show such a lack of respect for a sitting _Consul_. “The Visigoths are a shadow threat,” he insists, his balding pate reddening. “They haven’t been active at all since the Empress beat them back to their barren lands nearly seven years ago.”

 

Marcus, unassuming as ever, clears his throat when the Senator is done talking. He pulls himself up, tilting his chin down and throwing the full weight of his disapproval at the unworthy Publius. “The Empress believes they are a threat,” he answers, and his tone implies what his words do not: that speaking against the Empress is treason to all Rome, and Publius is stepping too close.

 

The other Senator lifts his hands in the air, abandoning the point. “Marcus, be reasonable,” he tries, shifting tactics, “We know that the Visigoths are far outside of Rome – from all accounts, that queen of theirs is still in her own lands! What threat could they possibly be?”

 

Marcus clenches his jaw, and Anya can see that he is tiring of the debate. She starts to rise to her feet, satisfied that it has been long enough that her own speech would be appropriate at this point, when another Senator steps in.

 

“The Visigoths may be far off,” says Gaius Atilius Serranus, a small, thin man with a face entirely too narrow to be considered trustworthy. “But what of these Amazons? By all accounts, they are closer to Rome than any of the troops we are currently discussing. And the tribes are all banding together. What is the Empress doing about that?”

 

Anya perks up at the discussion of the Amazons, narrowing her eyes at Gaius. How does he have that much information? Marcus had mentioned the Amazons briefly, not including their location, and Anya knows for a fact that it is not public knowledge that they are close to Rome. She herself was made privy to the news only by virtue of her status as Lexa’s adoptive sister and Aden’s mother, and she’s certain that Lexa would not have willingly shared it with Gaius. She makes a mental note to keep a closer watch on Gaius, the man elevating himself in her hierarchy of threats among the other Senators. He’s clearly got spies of his own within the palace.

 

Marcus, for his part, blinks in surprise before smoothly answering, “They may be closer, but the Empress deems them less of a concern. And I agree. Amazons have never been known to unite beyond their individual tribes and are unused to fighting together. And though they may be… spirited… I believe our numbers to be decisive in any potential confrontation.”

 

But Gaius seems unmoved. “Warriors who train from birth, mere leagues from Rome? Between them and a few disgruntled farmers from the north, who is the greater threat?” His expressions turns sly, the corner of his mouth lifting as he turns towards the crowd, away from the _Consul_ mediating the debate. “Or does the Empress have a bit of a blind spot when it comes to the Amazons? We’ve all heard of her leniency regarding the execution of the traitor Amazon today. An Amazon who personally attempted to drug the Empress and kill her while she was unable to defend herself. And yet our Empress extends her _mercy_ instead of the vengeance she should be enacting.” He spits out the word like it is dirt inside his mouth. During the short speech, he’s spread his arms wide, his aspect earnest, beseeching. Now he brings them into his body as something sly sneaks in to his tone. “It wouldn’t have anything to do with this new ambassador, would it? We all know of the Empress’s… weakness for pretty young women.”

 

Marcus is purpling now, his anger at the slight to his Empress overcoming his good sense. Anya can see the conflict coming, can see how his defense of Lexa will only make things worse, and quickly. She decides she’s waited long enough to have her say.

 

She stands, forcing herself to ignore the way the men in the room almost visibly shift away from her, as if she’s still a strange new creature that doesn’t quite belong in their midst. The three other women in the chamber catch her eye, one by one, and nod in solidarity. They know that speaking in the Senate, despite being one of the foundational duties of a Senator, is difficult for their newer female members.

 

Anya lifts her head and squares her shoulders, projecting the confidence her father taught her would cow most men into agreement before they even realized what was happening. She lets her gaze roam around the Senate chambers before she laughs, brittle. “A weakness nearly every man in this room shares,” she scoffs dismissively. “Are you all so incapable of doing your own duties? You forget, the Empress was a decorated war hero long before becoming Augustus’s heir. I would think she, more than any of us, would be able to weigh the threat of the Iceni.” She turns, addressing the rest of the crowd. “My father always said that the key to winning any battle lies in preparation. Would you all have us ride out to battle only half-informed?”

 

Gaius Atilius Serranus shakes his head dismissively. “You overestimate the savages, as does our esteemed Empress. The Celts have no military training, outdated weaponry, no organization. They are no threat at all. Instead of sending the legion to root them out, we can simply have the soldiers already in Londinium ride out to crush their little rebellion. The Empress need only give the order!”

 

Publius takes it as his cue to rejoin the conversation. “She must give _some_ order,” he agrees, “Although I do not see the harm in using the legion. If the force is larger than necessary to take on the Celts, what is the danger?”

 

“The danger is in leaving Rome exposed,” Anya breaks in incredulously. “No matter _your_ assessment of the danger, Senator au Graccus,” she grits out, “You must admit that the Empress, as the daughter of a great military leader, has more experience in this area.” She does not need to say that she can boast a similar pedigree. All who are present know who she is, know who really raised the Empress of Rome. “And I agree with her assessment. The Celtic Queen seems more than willing to bide her time outside Londinium for the moment. Perhaps she is waiting for reinforcements. Her people are coming from all across Brittanium, so the travel is likely to take some time. A longer time than it will take our soldiers to reach Rome, since we sent for them weeks ago. If we strike now, our numbers are roughly equal. Wait, and we gain the advantage.” She pauses, takes a step closer to Publius, looking down at him from her slightly greater height. “And you may dismiss the Visigoths, or the Amazons alone,” she adds, nodding her head at Gaius Atilius Serranus in his turn, “But if they decide to fight together… The Empress is right to wait for more intelligence. The _Consul_ tells us there are Roman spies in each camp. We must rely on our people. We must trust that they will bring us the information necessary to defeat all of the foes currently facing Rome.”

 

Publius looks as if he would argue further, but Marcus interrupts with a raised hand. “Enough,” he commands, and the chamber falls silent, even the background conversations quieting. “The day grows long. I propose we save the conversation for the next session.”

 

Several of the Senators start talking at once, but it’s Gaius who wins out. “By the next session, we will have lost all advantage of a quick strike! This will give the Empress exactly what she wants!”

Marcus squares up to him, an innocent mask falling into place. Anya grins internally, approving. Most only ever see Marcus as a straightforward, honest man, a man who puts the welfare of Rome above all else and strives to be ever honorable. But here, in the Senate, Anya has seen a sarcastic, almost duplicitous side to the man that she much prefers to his public persona. She doesn’t dare jump in to aide him – she’s already gone far enough in her defense of Lexa this session. Though she has done her best to earn her place in the Senate, and though it was Marcus who appointed her rather than her cousin, these men do not forget to whom they speak. Or whom, they assume, she’s speaking for.

 

So she is grateful beyond reason when another of her female colleagues stands up, Servia au Drusus, the niece of one of the wealthier patrician families of Rome. “Esteemed colleagues,” says Servia, a Senator whose circumspection in speech, despite her relatively senior status, at least to the other Senatorial women, has gained her the respect of her male counterparts, “the _Consul_ speaks wisely. We have much to think over, after all, and talk of action at this point is premature. We must process this knowledge with which we’ve been entrusted. Let us go back to our houses, to our families, and put our minds steadfastly to the task of interpreting this information and to deciding where best to lead our great Empire. We are not bound to meet only monthly as the Caesar formed us; in times of exigency we may convene at will. I humbly suggest that we are facing such a time. Let us reconvene in two weeks instead, when we will have had time to think over what it is we truly wish to suggest to our most holy Empress.”

There is little to say to that, and it doesn’t take long for the Senators to recognize the prudence of the suggestion. It’s reasonable to request time for them to think over intelligence they’ve only received this morning, and the promise of another session in the near future leaves them little room to argue that it’s unfair. Londinium is at least two weeks away from Rome, and the Senators in the room will not think to worry about the safety of the outlying territories in the meantime. Anya would hate them for it, but it makes her life easier. This way, Lexa, Indra and Gustus can steer the course of the battle in peace. Before two weeks are out, they will have things well in hand.

 

The Senate adjourns only an hour later, just long enough for the men in the room to have finished their blustering demands for a “special session” to be held two weeks later.

 

Anya spends the entire ride back planning. Lexa will needs to know of this, will need to know how her lax treatment of the Celts and the Amazons has sown seeds of discord amongst the Senators, _again_. They both know that the rumors have barely settled from a few years ago, when Lexa had let Costia au Junia back into Rome, had let her gain an appointment as an ambassador to Sicilia. She’d quashed them fairly effectively by crushing the last of the Gallic resistance, cementing the Empire’s hold in Gaul and lining their pockets with a fresh new influx of imports and Gallic slaves.

 

But it hadn’t been easy, not without the support of the Senate, and the Gauls had been heavily weakened already. If Lexa was right, and Anya had never known her to be wrong about such things, they would soon be fighting a war on three fronts, against three strong enemies. Even worse, it sounded like there was every possibility that those enemies may soon begin to work together.

 

Her stallion picks up on her mood, growing restless underneath her, his gait erratic as his hooves eat up the ground beneath them. She hunches over, urging him to go faster, speeding away from the Senate as best as she can. It gets her no closer to the answers she seeks.

 

It’s started to rain by the time she gets back to the estate, a cold, unrelenting downpour, unusual for this time of year. Her mood is as black as the sky as she hands the horse off to her stablehands, wringing her hair free of water as she strides into the main hall.

 

Tristan is waiting for her, arms full of thick wool towels, soft and luxurious. It’s not as good as cotton, but there are few enough of those that she likes to reserve them for guests, to further the impression of Julii wealth. She relieves him of the towels with a grateful sigh, and she’s so involved with drying herself off that it takes her a moment to register his expression. “What?” She queries when she finally notices him still standing there.

 

“Your cousin has sent word, _domina_ ,” he answers, taking the wet towels from her with an admirable attempt at hiding his distaste for the sopping bundles now in his arms. “She wanted to remind you to wear the Julii crest to pin your toga at the ceremony this day.”

 

The ceremony. In all the rush of the morning, she’d completely forgotten that it was today. She curses under her breath. “Get me some fresh formal clothes,” she orders, stalking off in the direction of her chambers. “And the Julii pin. And Tristan,” she adds almost as an afterthought, “Hurry. I have one more stop to make before I can head back to Rome.”

 

\------------------------

 

Raven has been working in this cramped chamber with Sinclair for days now. She doesn’t actually dislike the work – it’s simple and she finds that most of what she’s copying is interesting to read – but the warrior inside her craves activity beyond the simple exercises she does every night before going to sleep. She sets aside her latest finished work, a treatise on mathematics, and rests her head on her temples just as the door swings open.

 

She lifts her head, startled, to find Anya au Julii scowling down at her. The other woman must have come straight from the Senate, because she is still clothed in her most formal toga and tunic, crisp silk white with a broad purple stripe down the center. Judging by the look on her face and the uneven way her hair splays out of its braids, it must not have been a pleasant session. Is that mud on her arm? “Sleeping on the job, Amazon?” she demands, shooting a glare over at Sinclair, who pales and keeps his head down.

 

“Raven is a hard worker, mistress,” he mumbles, and Raven doesn’t know if she’s supposed to be impressed that he managed to muster a defense at all or revolted by his paucity of backbone. She cuts him off with a disgusted snort before she can hear anymore.

 

“I speak for myself, thank you,” she informs him, then looks back up at the irritated Roman. “And I was merely resting my eyes for a moment. You’ve had us scribing down here in the dark for days now.”

 

Anya scoffs, crossing her arms over her chest. “The work is hardly taxing, Amazon,” she answers, earning an obsequious nod from Sinclair. “Or are you ill, still? Is my physician lying to me about your progress?”

 

Raven starts at the question. The Julii had been sending her personal physician to continue Raven’s therapy since her arrival, but Raven had assumed that the order had more to do with making sure she healed enough to reach her full potential as a household slave. She hadn’t expected Anya to care enough to receive personal reports on her progress. Then again, it does seem that Anya has a mind for business. Likely she is just protecting her investment.

 

She grits her teeth. “What do you want?” She asks rudely, watching Sinclair recoil out of the corner of her eye, trying to distance himself from the troublemaker.

 

Anya narrows her eyes, and without a word she yanks Raven up by the arm and hurries them out of the room. “I should have you whipped for insolence,” she hisses under her breath, “And if you speak to me like that in front of another slave again, I will have no choice but to make an example of you. Do not test me, Amazon.”

 

Raven stares the Julii down, unimpressed by the threat. As of yet, and aside from Anya’s manhandling a moment ago, the other woman has yet to touch her. Still, she does not know how long she will remain here, and it’s probably unwise to antagonize the other woman too much. She does not want to be stuck in the library with Sinclair forever. “Noted,” she manages to bite out, and it doesn’t sound as harsh as it did in her head.

 

“So what did you want from me?”

 

Anya cocks her head, sizing the warrior up, judging her earnestness before turning and walking down the hall, gesturing for Raven to come with her. “I must attend an execution today,” she tells Raven as they climb the stairs up to the _domus’s_ main level. “You will attend with me.”

 

Raven looks at her askance, taken by surprise at the odd command. “Me?” she asks, curiosity coloring her voice. “Why would you want me to go?”

 

The Julii stops at the door to her solar, pushing it open and waving Raven through. It’s late morning, and the sun is pouring through open windows, heating the room and illuminating Raven’s face as she steps into the rays, grateful to be breathing fresh air after days of being cooped up inside.

 

She can feel Anya’s gaze on her back, studying her as she answers. “You are an Amazon,” she says matter-of-factly, as if that explains everything. “I like to have as much information about what’s going on in the Empire as possible. Your impressions may be useful.”

 

Raven turns back to Anya, leaning back against the windowsill. It’s insolent, to be so relaxed in the Julii’s presence, but Anya doesn’t seem to mind. “I’m not sure I understand.”

 

The look she gets at that is confusion itself, and then sable eyes cloud with something else, something Raven has not seen on the Julii before. “I thought you would have heard,” Anya says, the arrogance gone from her voice. She sounds quieter, contemplative. “Although I suppose it makes sense that you haven’t. Not much news makes it to the library.” She pauses, inhales. Raven feels dread starting to build within her, to creep into her veins. “The woman who is to be executed is one of yours. An Amazon.”

 

Oh, gods. _Oh, gods_. Not Clarke. She doesn’t know how she feels about Clarke at the moment, doesn’t know if she wants to see the other woman as her _kwin_ still, but Clarke is still her sister, still the young, unsure girl with no grace in her limbs but plenty of fire in her eyes. “Who?” She chokes out, hoping against hope that Clarke is still well and unharmed, despite all that lies between them. If the Empress has made any move to harm her…

 

Anya stills, blinks, as if that were not quite the reaction she was expecting. “A kitchen girl,” she answers slowly, angular face scrunching in concentration as she tries to remember. “Mara? Maya?”

 

A surge of relief floods through her, followed quickly by an accompanying wave of guilt. “Maya,” she affirms absently, mind racing. What could Maya have done? Before Raven had been sold to Anya and taken away from the palace, they’d had discussions, of course. Had been trying to come up with a plan to get their sisters and their tribe out of slavery. But Maya has always been a warrior only. The girl isn’t stupid, but she isn’t a mastermind. Raven has a hard time believing that she would come up with a plan to strike at the Empress on her own. Had she tried to sneak away from the palace, to escape? But that hardly seems like a capital offense.

 

She needs more information. “What happened?” she asks, cocking her head at the Julii but keeping her eyes slightly lowered. If she wants the Roman to give her information, she’ll need to act curious, but not calculating. Slaves with too much information would be dangerous creatures.

 

She doesn’t really expect Anya to answer her – the Roman has no obligation to keep her informed, after all – but the other woman barely hesitates. “An assassination attempt, apparently,” she answers, moving around the side of her desk, temporarily exposing her back to Raven. _Stupid, stupid woman_. But when the Julii rounds the desk again, she’s picked up a dagger from the edge of the wooden furniture, idly twisting it in her hands as she goes on. Raven’s rethinking her assessment of the Julii when her mind focuses back on Anya’s words. “Wait – did you say assassin? Maya did not attempt the kill herself?”

 

Anya’s eyes narrow, and Raven realizes too late that she has perhaps given too much of her own inclinations against the Empress away with her eagerness. But whatever Anya’s thinking, she does not say it, answering Raven’s question instead. “Not as such. We believe Costia au Junia conspired with the Amazon to drug the Empress ahead of an assassination attempt orchestrated by _Legatus_ Junia. Maya’s part was to drug the wine and bring it to the Empress. Once she was incapacitated, the assassin was to murder her with a poisoned blade.” She stops then, though something in her expression makes Raven think she isn’t quite finished.

 

Still, she must think on what she knows. Maya was part of a plot to kill the Empress? She remembers the younger warrior with a grin on her lips, laughter bubbling out of her as she and a cadre of her peers snuck away from Raven’s tent after leaving a live salamander in their instructor’s washbasin. She remembers her younger, as a girl, running up to Raven after she’d returned from a journey abroad, begging for a trinket from the world beyond. She remembers her pale, determined face as she and Raven had plotted in the dark, remembers the ferocity with which she whispered, _jus drein, jus daun_. She feels ill.

 

“But the Empress is alive,” she says, knowing in her bones it’s true. Anya would not be here, talking to her so casually, if it were not. She raises her eyes to the woman in question, who is looking back at her, arms crossed at her chest and a predatory gleam in her eye.

 

Anya straightens, unfolding her arms and advancing on Raven, her added height leaving her to look down on the Amazon as she comes far too close, menacing. Raven does not back away, does not move an inch, though inside she is beginning to regret her lack of circumspection.

 

When she speaks, the calm in Anya’s voice sends a chill down Raven’s spine. She remembers the other woman’s confrontation of the guards the first time they met, how her cheeks had colored with anger as she’d shouted them down. Now, though her eyes spark with that same anger, Anya’s tone is soft, almost gentle, as she leans in close to Raven, so close that her breath ghosts over the Amazon’s ear as she says, “She lives. And if I find out that you had anything to do with this, Amazon, _you_ will wish you did not. You may count on that.”

 

Then she is withdrawing, her cold expression completed by a slight, cutting smile that does not reach her eyes. Raven is left feeling breathless, a strange sensation she cannot put a name to spreading through her body. _It is not fear_ , she tells herself. _It is a beautiful woman standing too close. You are not afraid of her_. Raven is an Amazon warrior. She fears no other.

 

She lets the corner of her mouth curl into a sneer, squaring up towards the other woman. “Your Empress has more to fear from her bedfellows than from me, it seems,” she taunts, and is confused by the slight smirk the remark evinces from Anya. But the Amazon is not done speaking. “If I wanted your Empress dead, Roman,” she continues, taking a step forward with her good leg, “I would face her myself with spear in hand.”

 

Anya is still holding the dagger. She doesn’t point it towards Raven, doesn’t do anything more than toy with it idly, but it’s there all the same. There is a long moment between them where the two women study each other, eyes darting back and forth, seeking. Then Anya tilts her head, the wicked smile Raven is beginning to recognize drifting lazily across her face. “Rest assured, Amazon. As long as I live, you will not get the chance.” As she speaks, she lays the dagger down diagonally across the main table, its point toward Raven.

 

Raven does not hold back her answering grin, and she knows she looks feral, nearly crazed, as she responds. “As long as you live, Anya au Julii.” It’s too far, and she knows it – knows this game they have of pretending to joke while being deadly serious instead is deadly mostly for her, that Anya could have her killed in an instant – but she does not care as a full grin, genuine this time, spreads across Anya’s face and the other woman gifts her with a rich chuckle.

 

“An intriguing challenge, Amazon,” she tells Raven, pointedly turning away from the other woman. It’s clearly intended as an insult, though something tells Raven that the intention is more to rattle her than to really infuriate her. Even Anya isn’t stupid enough to purposely turn her back on a battle-trained Amazon, weaponless or not. So Raven lets her weight shift against the nearby table, lets herself lean closer to the other woman’s discarded dagger, surreptitiously shoving a few of the papers out of the way as she does so.

 

Anya’s expression does not give way, but something about the tension in her shoulders lightens slightly as she continues. “One I would gladly take up at this afternoon’s spectacle.” Her tone flattens at the last word of the sentence, signaling Raven that the other woman is fully capable – and ready – to make good on the threat. Still, there is much to discuss, and Anya seems to agree, because she adds, “However, I cannot, as I do not believe such an engagement would please the Empress. And as long as we are to be bound to one another, I feel as though I ought to get as much use out of you as I can.” Raven stills at the curious turn of phrase, but dismisses the thought as quickly as it comes. Anya cannot mean anything by it.

 

“And you plan to use me…?” It is meant to sound challenging, perhaps a little curious, but the words sound with a hint of flirtation to Raven’s chagrined ears. She prays Anya is deaf as well as overconfident.

 

Anya shrugs, sable gaze sliding away in disinterest, and Raven heaves an internal sigh of relief at the reprieve. “I told you, Amazon. I’d like an insider’s perspective on the goings on today. Beyond that, you can help me with a few side projects I have, construction within the Empire. The Empress assures me your mind is sharp.” She says it with an upward lilt, leaving Raven with little doubt as to what Anya thinks of that particular assessment. “Beyond that,” she pauses, her eyes coming back to meet Raven’s, a wolfish sort of humor there, “I’ll let you know when I have need of you.” Raven reassesses. Perhaps Anya is less deaf than she’d hoped, after all.

 

“I’m not going to be your tame little pet,” she warns, and Anya actually _laughs_ , the sound richer than Raven had expected to hear from her.

 

“You have backbone, Amazon, I’ll give you that,” she answers, amusement still coloring her tone. “But I don’t think you understand what it is that I’m asking.”

 

Raven crosses her arms. “I don’t recall you asking anything at all,” she retorts.

 

Anya huffs out a breath, humor fading into exasperation. “I do not have time for this, Amazon. I need a partner. My husband means well, but he has not the mind for the type of work I need. You can aid me in this, or you can copy scrolls in the library for the rest of your days. It is your choice; I will not make it for you. In the meantime, I must get ready for the ceremony. If you wish to join me, be at the stables in half a candlemark. Wear something… appropriate. I’ll have fresh clothes sent to your room.”

 

She leaves without waiting for Raven’s reply. Raven stares after her for several minutes, and then with a sigh, heads up the long flight of stairs to her chambers. The clothes are waiting there for her already, classic Roman designs with long togas and flowing tunics. She picks one up, feels the weight of the material, the way it shimmers across her fingertips. It feels wrong, wearing the garb of her captors.

 

She feels under her robes for the dagger she’d nicked from Anya’s study on the way out. A stupid risk, but she’d been unable to resist the urge to challenge the Roman just a little more, to push her just a bit farther. She pulls it out now, a grin stealing across her face as she eyes first the knife, then the clothes Anya sent. It’s something she can work with.

 

\-------------------------------------------

 

Lexa chooses the ceremonial armor, a bright burnished breastplate of glistening steel inlaid with gold in the shape of the soaring eagle of Rome, wings unfolded and tinted darker than the rest of the metal. Her skirt is a fuller length, this time, thin steel shanks coming down just past the tops of her knees, covering more than her regular battle armor would. The armor is heavier than most she could wear, and the quality of the steel, such a new metal, means that it’s more expensive than almost anyone but the highest echelons of the nobility can afford. This is meant to impress, not to move. 

 

She decides against the helm, wanting her eyes and expression to be clear to the crowd on this day. Her sandaled boots curl up around her calves, wrapping their protection in the form of coiling vipers, a gift from the Queen of Egypt after her last visit. She clasps her cloak around her shoulders, a deep, Imperial purple today, and allows her maidservant to braid her hair into the Imperial crown. She foregoes the laurels as well, for today she must look both warrior and Empress. She must embody all that is Rome. 

 

She picks up a scepter, a tall, ornate thing gilded in gold with an eagle mimicking the one on her breastplate, and is in the process of choosing a sword when a rap comes at the door. Lexa does not look up as she carefully draws a long, double-edged greatsword from the rack, setting the scepter aside so that she can wield and test its balance. She’d had the sword sharpened the day before, and wielding it now, she can tell that the smith made some adjustments to the guard at the base of the sword as well, tapering it so that the sword would be lighter and would cut more swiftly. She makes a mental note to thank the man.

 

It’s a moment more before she sets the blade down, satisfied, and raises her emerald gaze to Octavia au Aquilli, who is standing at attention in full armor before her liege. Despite her stiff posture and her military-perfect salute – fist clasped over her left breast, above her heart – there is curiosity in the Aquilli’s unwavering gaze as she stares forward. Lexa moves into her line of sight, gestures the woman at ease. 

 

“Are you ready to go, Empress?” Octavia asks, clearly confused as to why she is standing here with Lexa but her partner is nowhere to be seen. “We have only moments before midday, and the execution is set to start with the sun at its highest peak.”

 

Lexa remembers. She can’t forget, not the look in Clarke’s eyes when she’d sentenced this Amazon to execution, not the look in Gustus’s when she’d laid out the manner of it. Not the way the smile slid from Clarke’s face in the early morning when Lexa left her bed to prepare to kill her tribeswoman. Not the look of hurt and guilt that flashed across her features when Lexa had reminded her.

 

It is, in a roundabout way, part of what Lexa had wanted to discuss with Octavia. The Praetorian’s relationship with Clarke seemed complicated at best, but of all of her Praetorians, Lexa thinks Octavia might be the most receptive to what she has to say. “I’m aware, _Praetor_ ,” she tells the Aquilli, and watches the other woman’s straighten just a bit in pride at the title.

 

 

“I have another assignment for you, one that is especially delicate.” Octavia’s brows knit in confusion at her Empress’s words, but Lexa raises a hand, willing the other woman to be silent until she finishes. “From now on, you will spend the time you are not in training guarding Clarke of the Skaikru. During the times that you are training with Gustus, she will accompany you and train with you. Recent events have made her considerably more vulnerable in this palace, and it will not do for one of our own ambassadors to be assassinated in the halls of the palace itself in the name of vengeance for the attempt on my life. We yet have a chance to avoid war with the Amazons, but we will lose it should Clarke be killed.” She levels a stern glance at Octavia, who looks on the verge of protest despite her orders. “You will protect her as you would protect me,” she commands, putting every ounce of steel she possesses into her voice. “Do you understand?”

 

Octavia has always been a great soldier, Lexa reflects, but she’s never quite conquered that temper of hers. She’s clearly upset by the orders, the muscles in her jaw working back and forth as she struggles to keep her mouth shut. It takes her an impressively long time to lose the battle, but Lexa waits patiently until the Aquilli finally chokes out, “Yes, Empress.” For a moment, Lexa thinks that will be all, but then the Praetor is speaking all at once. “But don’t you think there might be someone more suited to the task? I am a _Praetor_ , Empress, not just a _protector_. Have I displeased you in some way, that you would remove me from your side?”

 

The Empress rolls her shoulders, the weight of her formal armor already starting to bother her. She gives the Aquilli a long, steady glance, the younger woman’s gaze pleading, desperate to understand. Lexa debates internally for a moment, considering how best to handle the situation. She has told Octavia as much as she is willing about the reasons for protecting Clarke – but she has not told her, though she suspects the other woman already knows, about the main one. So instead she moves, flipping the scepter over in her hand and sending it arcing through the air at Octavia’s forehead.

 

Her _Praetor_ has her arm up before she can blink, gauntlet clanging against metal as she pushes the scepter away, hand reaching around to grasp Lexa’s wrist and twist it down. Lexa anticipates the move, pulls her arm just a bit forward so that Octavia’s move won’t turn the more delicate tendons in her wrist. She smiles up at the Aquilli, who releases her in horror, raising her hands as if against the idea that she could have imposed on her Empress’s person in such a way.

 

Lexa cuts her off before she can apologize. “You’re improving,” she praises. “Gustus is teaching you well. Your reflexes, your reaction time, your instincts – that is why I have chosen you to guard the Skaikru Queen. You have acquitted yourself well in your time as _Praetor_ , despite challenging circumstances and despite the fact that you were only recently elevated. Your loyalty is unquestioning. I do not choose you as punishment, Aquilli, but as an honor. Now we really must go, or we will be late.”

 

It should be the end of the matter, but the Aquilli has never learned to let things go. “I led the attack against her tribe, Empress. You honor me with this posting, but I do not believe that Clarke of the Skaikru will take well to having a personal guard, especially one who killed her own mother.”

 

Lexa shrugs, distractedly adjusting a final strap on her chest plate. “You might be surprised,” she answers, watching as Octavia cocks her head in puzzlement. “She seems to have developed something of a respect for you. A respect I believe is mutual.” She looks past Octavia as Lincoln appears in the doorway, bowing low before straightening and waiting just outside the door. Lowering her voice, she adds, “And between us, Aquilli, I am … thankful, for your attempt to speak for me yesterday.” She grins, and then lets the chill seep into it, lets her emerald gaze crystallize and harden and her smile reveal just a hint of the monster lurking beneath her breast. “Though I trust it will be the only time that happens.”

 

Octavia’s eyes widen, and Lexa suppresses a smile as she brushes past the fearful _Praetor_. She hears Lincoln’s voice behind her, questioning whether Octavia is feeling well.

 

But all traces of amusement fade as she steps out into the corridor, once again taking up the mantle of the Empress of Rome. She does not allow herself to think of Clarke as she makes her way to the platform where she will execute the Amazon. She will not allow such distractions to temper her fury, not today.

 

Today, she is strong. She is powerful. She is Alexandria au Augustus. Today, she is Justice herself.

 

\-----------------------------------

 

Raven gets to the stables nearly five minutes before the set meeting time. Anya is already there, already astride a tall grey gelding. It is not the stallion she rode when she first came to fetch Raven from Rome, and Raven wonders if her usual horse is still resting from the trip back from the Senate this morning. There is a smaller bay mare saddled next to her, and Raven raises an eyebrow at the horse’s impatient sidling. Not exactly a docile old nag, that one. Apparently Anya has a need for haste and she trusts enough in her own equestrian skills to be able to catch Raven if she decides to try to flee. Either that, or she’s secretly hoping the horse dumps Raven on her ass halfway to the city.

 

Anya turns to look at her as she approaches, her eyes widening as she takes in Raven’s hastily revised attire. Raven takes the opportunity to assess the Julii woman while she’s distracted by her apparent shock at Raven’s clothing. Anya is wearing the most formal robes Raven has ever seen on her, though it is similar to what she had on earlier. Her toga is fine, smooth white silk with a matching tunic and the rich purple stripe of the Senator, the eagle pin clasped at her shoulder drawing the eye naturally from the regal ferocity of the bird to the equally intense blade of her collarbone, just visible over the edge of the tunic. Her honey-brown hair is tied back into once-again impeccable braids, leaving her angular face exposed, and when Raven tries to meet her eyes she finds them instead roving down Raven’s own body with a hunger so primal the Amazon recognizes it more with her body than her mind. She feels something take root inside her and _pull_ , stretching out to wrap unseen tendrils around the both of them.

 

She stops walking. Pushing back against whatever it is that she’s feeling, Raven simply cocks out her good hip, placing her hands at her waist, raising an eyebrow at the Julii. “Like something you see?” she queries, half-hoping that Anya will give her an honest answer. Praying that she lies instead.

 

The gods are good, because Anya au Julii recovers quickly. She schools her expression into one more befitting a mistress addressing her slave and snorts in derision, waving an imperious hand at Raven. “Hardly,” she answers, and her tone is one of utter disdain. Raven has to suppress her outward sigh of relief as they retreat back to more solid ground. “What on earth did you do the clothes I sent for you? You look like a cross between a slave and a savage, Amazon.”

 

The words would be more convincing if Anya didn’t stop stealing glances at the places where her hastily-tailored uniform shows a little more skin than typical Roman garb would. She’s cut the sleeves from the tunic, allowing her the free movement of her muscled limbs, and has cut a long slit into the skirt for the same reason. The neckline she’s lowered for breathability. She’s fashioned leather bracelets from the thongs of a spare pair of sandals, and a leather headband from a cord meant to be worn as a belt, which she has pierced a pattern of tribal symbols into with the tip of the dagger. It is not exactly Amazonian garb, but it is the closest she will be able to come without the proper materials.

 

“That seems as apt a description for me as any I have heard lately,” Raven returns, strolling up to the horse set aside for her with a disaffected air. Well, as disaffected as she can manage, which happens to be a slow, lurching gait in which she drags her still-healing leg, but Anya doesn’t stare. Doesn’t even seem to notice. The apparent kindness – or indifference – irritates her enough to add, “And I have a name, _domina_.” The title is not an honorific, not the way Raven says it.

 

 “Ah, yes,” rejoins Anya, turning in her saddle to look at the wounded Amazon in her new position, trying to pull herself into her own saddle. It’s easier than she would have thought, her upper body muscles still well developed and her legs not nearly as much of a hindrance now that she’s on horseback. “What is it again? Harpy? Strix?”

 

Raven gasps in mock-indignation, earning a self-satisfied quirk of the lips from Anya. “You wound me,” she deadpans, and the other woman heaves a long-suffering sigh that would be out of place even in the depths of the worst Greek tragedy.

 

“I see that you will remain a thorn in my side, Amazon, no matter how lenient I am with you. Come along, then. That outfit will give the other Senators conniptions, and with any luck, a few of them will have weak hearts. One can only hope.” The Julii turns then, but slowly, as if dragging her eyes away from Raven is something she is loath to do. Raven finds, to her own growing horror, that she understands the Roman’s plight.

 

“Tristan,” Anya calls, and Raven blanches as the other slave materializes as if out of thin air, astride his own dappled gelding. “We must go now. Raven and I have an appointment to keep.”

 

\--------------------------------------

 

Clarke is not sure where she is supposed to be, exactly. The execution is to be held in the Colosseum, where the people of Rome can crowd and heckle, can sit with their their friends and their jeering and throw refuse at the accused. The arena plays host to a hastily constructed scaffolding, decorated with the red banners of Rome and the rich purple of the Empress and complete with a solid wooden block where Maya will rest her head for the last time. The day is warm, and the air is heavy with the smell of sweat and meat, sold fresh from the fires by vendors lining the outside of the arena and carried in by the eager masses, to be eaten while watching the ‘entertainment’. It’s as public as it possibly can be, and though Clarke understands the politics behind it, the whole thing makes her skin crawl.

 

There is a dais set up for her, she knows, somewhere that the Skaikru ambassador is to stand, to preside over the beheading, but she is not sure where it is. It doesn’t help matters that Octavia, her new shadow, is standing scowling behind her, not letting her venture out into the crowd to look and practically snarling at anyone who comes near. She suppresses a sigh. Apparently the _Praetor’s_ unending devotion to her Empress extends to her order to protect Clarke, because Octavia quickly put aside any lingering doubts about the Amazon in favor of following her around and scaring off anyone who so much as looks askance at Clarke. She’s glad she’s already found this – whatever it is – with Lexa, because finding romantic involvement with Octavia nearly attached to her hip would be next to impossible.

 

As much as she warms at the thought of Lexa, of her concern for Clark’s well-being, she wishes the Empress had at least _mentioned_ her brilliant new plan to have Octavia removed from her service and placed on Clarke’s. It’s barely been an hour, and already the woman is quite literally throwing her weight around, occasionally shoving her body in between Clarke and an overzealous plebian. She’s going to start a riot if they aren’t careful.

 

Finally, Clarke spots the platform out of the corner of her eye and begins to make her way through it, Octavia muttering curses behind her as she shoves the crowds away. Clarke hears more than one disgruntled murmur of “Amazon,” and “whore” and “ _bitch_ _queen_ ” under her breath as she passes, and finds herself  reluctantly conceding that the _Praetor_ ’s protection might not be such a bad idea after all.

 

After weaving her way through at least two dozen more sweat-soaked bodies, she reaches the bottom of the dais and freezes. Octavia nearly collides into her at the sudden halt, then scowls and turns to speak to the centurion on duty, who nods and waves them along. Clarke swallows past the lump in her throat and turns to her new bodyguard. “Can you stay here?” she asks quickly, willing the stubborn brunette to understand. When Octavia opens her mouth to protest, Clarke jerks her head over her shoulder, drawing Octavia’s gaze to the people already occupying  the dais.

 

Her eyes flash with understanding, but then she narrows them as she sets her jaw. Clarke can hear the words coming almost before she says them. “The Empress commanded me to watch you.”

 

Clarke points to the centurion on watch, then to several others placed around the bottom of the platform, keeping the crowds at bay. “I’ll be fine here,” she pleads, trying not to sound as desperate as she feels. “No one will be able to reach me.”

 

Octavia’s mouth sets into an aggravated frown. Eyeing her as if her life may not be worth the trouble of protecting, she nods stiffly. “You will not leave this dais without my permission,” she orders, and Clarke sighs inwardly. She could argue more, could tell Octavia that technically Clarke should be the one giving orders, but she has more important things to deal with right now.  So she nods assent and takes a moment to steady her raging emotions before, with a deep breath, she climbs the rest of the steps to the dais.

 

Anya au Julii is standing there, looking regal as ever in full Senatorial garb. She glances over briefly as Clarke approaches, but then looks back to the stage, as if the Queen of the Skaikru tribe is beneath her notice. Clarke has only seen her once before, and as much as she wants to take the time to study Aden’s mother, she finds herself distracted. Because standing next to Lexa’s cousin is another of her tribe. Raven.

 

She takes up a place on the other side of Anya, wondering if Raven will ignore her throughout the execution or just give up halfway in and stab her with one of the knives Clarke knows she has to have hidden on her person somewhere. And for a long moment, it looks as if Raven is doing that very calculation, her gaze intense as she stares down her – former? – liege. But then Raven is leaning in towards Anya and murmuring something, too low for Clarke to hear. Anya gives Raven a suspicious look and says something back to her in that same low tone, but seems to relax when Raven nods along. A moment later they have switched seats, Raven now sitting in between Aden’s mother and Clarke.

 

The Queen looks at her friend and mentor sidelong, apprehensive, but Raven does not look like a woman about to engage in murder. Rather, she seems calm, her usual fire running subdued underneath the surface of her skin, and that alarms Clarke more than anything. She falls back on her default, which has always, embarrassingly, been rambling.

 

“Raven, listen, about what we were talking about before you left… it was unfair of me to expect you to understand what I was doing without ever talking to you about it, and I should have trusted you enough to come to you and explain my reasoning, and I’m sorry if I had anything to do with –”

 

Raven cuts her off with a hand on hers before Clarke can finish with something like _you getting sold to Anya_ and make the whole ordeal much more awkward for all of them. “It is alright, Clarke,” she answers, and neither miss that she still does not refer to Clarke as her queen. Not _all_ right, then. “I have had time to think, and though I still do not wholly understand why you did the things you did, I do trust you enough to believe that you thought you had our best interests at heart.” She lowers her voice a bit, glancing backwards at Anya. “You have always felt the duty, as I do, to protect the tribe. It is who you are,” she adds, and Clarke does not miss the implication in her words. _It is who I expect you to continue to be_.

 

She feels a weight lifting from her shoulders at the unexpected reconciliation. She cannot say all of what she wishes, not here with Anya beside them, but the crowd is loud enough around them that if they speak quietly, she does not think they will be overheard. “I am trying to do what is best for our people, Raven,” she insists, eyes glancing back and forth between the warrior’s, trying to gauge her belief. “I am trying still.”

 

Raven simply nods back at her, wordless, and Clarke cannot tell if she accepts her words or not. They sit in silence until the crowd begins to swell, the noise growing ever louder. They are getting more restless now that the time for the execution is almost upon them. She closes off the part of her mind that wants to vault down from the platform, to rush to the scaffolding, rescue her warrior, and fight her way back through to safety. It is less than a fool’s hope.

 

“Is she treating you well?” she asks Raven, half to distract herself and half out of an honest desire to know. Beside them, Anya au Julii shifts in her seat, but she’s still facing forward and otherwise gives no indication of having heard.

 

Still, Raven peeks at her out of the corner of her eye before answering, in her typical offhand manner, “As well as can be expected when you’re a slave. I haven’t been harmed. I’ve been fed and clothed and given fairly light work to do.”

 

Clarke raises her eyebrows, managing to find some humor in their situation. “ _Clothed_ might be a bit of an overstatement,” she offers, gratified when she sees Raven’s eyes alight with a hint of their old mirth.

 

“I wanted to look like an Amazon, not a delicate flower,” she retorts, waving a hand at Clarke’s own, decidedly more Roman, garb. “You’ll have a tough time even climbing down the stairs in that outfit.”

 

Her eyes grow serious as she levels her gaze at Clarke. “And your new master?” she asks, the levity gone from her eyes. “How is she treating you?”

 

Clarke hesitates. She doesn’t know how to respond to that. She cannot tell Raven that she is gentle, almost kind, that the Lionness of Rome has been kissing her softly and sharing her bed. She cannot tell Raven that she is growing to care for Lexa, or that she can even _call_ her Lexa, or of her hopes for an alliance between their peoples. She is weighing exactly what to say when she is saved by the noise of the crowd, a great roar swelling up from beneath them.

 

Raven’s eyes darken, but she seems to recognize the futility of getting an answer now and they turn in unison to watch Maya, disheveled and pale but seemingly otherwise unharmed, stumbling out of the tunnel between two Roman centurions and a wall of Roman legionnaires, each at least a head and a half taller than the young Amazon but holding her with the wariness they would rightly show a man twice her size. That, at least, brings a little swell of pride to soothe Clarke’s aching heart as she watches a woman she knew as a child being led, one slow step at a time, to her death.

 

The centurions’ progress is hampered at first by the crowd as they step into their path, taunting and trying to get through the wall of soldiers to the prisoner. It all stops as the Empress walks out behind Maya, flanked by Lincoln and Indra, who are in turn flanked by Gustus and Titus. Marcus au Quinctilius walks directly behind them with his own guard.

 

Lexa – Alexandria, in this form – is resplendent in highly polished heavy armor, looking as lethal as she is beautiful, the living representation of Minerva herself. She holds her head high, keeping her gaze straight as the crowd falls away from her and her entourage with an enraptured hush. Clarke understands. She has felt the reverence of seeing Lexa in all her glory, too.

 

The crowd’s temporary silence departs as soon as it arose as the party reaches the raised platform, and shouts of “death to traitors!” and “vengeance for Rome!” arise all around them as all but the centurions, Maya, and Alexandria herself halt at the edge of the dais. Clarke watches the centurions drop Maya to her knees in front of the wooden block, the young Amazon’s features etched into a rictus of zealotry.

 

She closes her eyes and decides to ask Raven the question she’s been dreading to ask. “Did you know? About Maya? About what she was planning to do?”

 

Raven is leaning forward in her seat, knuckles white as she grips the edge of her seat. She does not look at Clarke, but she shakes her head almost imperceptibly. “I knew she was starting to slip. I knew she wanted justice for our people. I did not know how far she was willing to go to get it.” She stops, as if thinking over her next few words. “I would not have supported this, Clarke. She attacked without honor, hiring a blade inside of facing her opponent sword to sword. It goes against all our teachings.” A pause. “I have heard that she was working with someone else, a Roman. I do not know why she would do such a thing. She shames herself with these actions.”

 

Clarke slumps forward with relief. She’d been hoping Raven would say something like that. She’d known the other woman since she was a child, and it would have gone against everything she knew of Raven to think her involved with something so devious. Still, Lexa had said that she’d been stirring up the Amazons behind the scenes, and she had to know.

 

She looks down at Lexa now, her sinewy arms stretching forward for the sword in her guard’s hands. Beside Raven, Anya is leaning over to say something, pulling the warrior’s attention away from her friend and giving Clarke the opportunity to observe the tableau below unhampered. Lexa is turning the sword in her hands, feeling the balance of it. She nods once, raising her head, and for a moment Clarke’s vision is blocked by the sun shining off the polish of her armor and the metal of the sword. She thinks she sees Lexa’s vision drift up to her for a split second, but it’s over so fast she can’t be sure. If she feels anything about being seconds from killing someone, she does not show it. Her face is impassive as she steps forward, raising a hand for silence.

 

“Romans,” she roars into the sudden hush. “This woman has been found guilty of treason! She has admitted to aiding in an attempt on my life, and for that she will lose her own this day!” She pauses to let the crowd scream their anger at the tiny girl on stage. After a moment, she raises her free hand again. “But she does not speak for her people in this! Her own Queen, Clarke of the Skaikru Amazons, my own ambassador to that same people, foiled this attempt on my life!” She gestures at Clarke, who stands up with shaking legs, trying not to let her horror at being identified show. She can feel Raven’s eyes burning into the side of her head. This is the second time she has saved the life of their enemy, and Clarke knows that Raven has still not forgiven her for the first.

 

Lexa – no, Alexandria, Clarke cannot think of her as Lexa right now, as much as she knows that the other woman is trying to help, to protect her, continues speaking, but the rest of her words are drowned out by the blood rushing through Clarke’s ears as she sits back down. By praising her actions to Rome, Alexandria is solidifying Clarke’s position there, letting the Roman people know that she is not a threat. Insulating her and, to a lesser extent, her people, from the anger the Roman citizens will feel at Amazons in general now that one of their own has attacked the Empress.

 

But she has also as much as told the Amazons that Clarke has taken the side of Rome. No matter how much truth there is to it, it will be that much harder for Clarke to gain the trust of her people, to convince them that she is working for the good of the Skaikru tribe. Alexandria may have protected her life, but she’s jeopardized her Queenhood. “I didn’t know it was Maya,” she whispers to Raven, guiltily.

 

There is stone in Raven’s face and in her eyes when she turns to look at her. “I told you, Maya brought her shame on herself.” She looks angry, so angry, but her voice is even as she adds, “I hope you know what you’re doing, Clarke. Your actions here impact us all. Do not forget, you are Abbinia’s daughter. You must never forget.”

 

Clarke does not understand, not entirely, does not know if Raven is telling her that she was wrong or right in saving Lexa. What she does know is that, for now, the other Amazon is not drawing a blade, and that is a start. They will have to talk about this later, but Anya is watching them with serious, curious eyes, and they both know better than to say what they need to plainly right now.

 

Alexandria has finished her speech, and the crowds below are calling for blood. She’s walking around to the edge of the block, looking so solemn she is almost another person, no trace of the softness Clarke sees in their quiet moment together. 

 

In the end, Alexandria is true to her word. She lifts the sword, and, in a move almost too fast for the naked eye to follow, brings it down. She severs Maya’s head from her neck in one blow. It is a clean death.

 

 _“Yu gonplei ste odon_ ,” whisper Clarke and Raven, in unison, and it feels like absolution.

 

\--------------------------

 

Lexa walks back through the tunnels after the execution, stripping her armor as she goes, handing it off to a waiting Titus. She must find Clarke. She had not been able to do more than glance at Clarke during the ceremony, had not been able to gauge her reaction to Lexa’s attempt to shield her or to Maya’s beheading. She hadn’t discussed the idea of singling her out beforehand, hadn’t even thought of it until just a moment before she said it. She hopes it is the right thing, hopes she can stem the backlash against the Amazons before Clarke loses any more of her people.

 

Her advisors had wanted her to denounce Costia at the ceremony, too, to declare her an enemy of Rome. But she is not ready for that yet. She needs more information. She needs to find her.

 

She almost ignores the winded messenger sprinting towards them, deep in thought, until he skids to a stop in front of her, heaving huge gasps of breath. He hands her a scroll, which Indra snatches away from him protectively before Lexa can take it, keeping him at a safe distance. She pulls it open, reading the contents to herself. Her usually dark complexion pales. Wordless, she hands the scroll to Lexa, her aspect grim.

 

Lexa takes it with more than a little trepidation. This can’t be real. There must be more to this story than the few lines hastily scribbled across the parchment, the hurried scratch of her general’s hand. Marcus is at her side, questioning, and it takes a long moment before she can bring her shellshocked gaze up to meet his. She finds her own apprehension mirrored in his gaze, and she hands him the scroll, willing her hands not to shake as she does so. Turning, she addresses the small group of advisors and Praetorians.

 

“ _Praefect_ Bellamy au Aquilli writes to tell us that the Second Legion has been lost, including _Proconsul_ Pike, who was riding out to observe the city’s defenses. Londinium has fallen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary:
> 
> Curia - the Roman Senate chamber, the place where Senators assembled for debate  
> Consul – One of the two elected leaders of Rome. In this story, one is always the Empress/Emperor.  
> Dies Martes - Tuesday, the "day of Mars." Seemed fitting.  
> Domina - an honorific for a Roman noblewoman  
> Praetor – a member of the Praetorian guard, the Empress’s household guard  
> Protector – bodyguard  
> Harpy - A mythological creature, half-human and half-bird. A physical representation of storm winds.  
> Strix - A mythological bird of ill omen that fed on human flesh and blood.  
> Yu gonplei ste odon – “Your fight is over,” the death blessing of the Amazons.  
> Proconsul – Governor of a province. A diplomat, not a military position.  
> Praefect – The governor or overseer of a territory, like the mayor of a city in the U.S.


	17. XVII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You guys. This chapter was so hard to write. I don't really have an excuse - it was just like this axe hanging over my head and the more I thought about writing it, the more I procrastinated. So. It's done now. A bit of 18 is done now, as well, because this chapter got split into two. This is the beginning of the actual plot we've been building towards for a while now. Let me know what you think! Also, I'm jaimeajamais on Tumblr, if you have questions about any of the Roman stuff.

 

The war room is in chaos. Messengers scramble back and forth, taking hastily-scribbled missives out to the legions in the field, or arriving, breathless, to deliver updated reports. There are more Roman soldiers than Clarke has ever seen except on the battlefield, each in the same meticulously curated uniform, each with the same grim expression on their face. Lexa stands in the center of the room by the map table, in a hushed and, from the looks of it, tense conversation with Indra, Gustus, Anya, Marcus, Aden, and two other men whom Clarke does not recognize. They must be other generals. One, an older man with a graying beard and steel-set eyes, has a hand on Anya’s shoulder. Looking at them next to each other, there’s no mistaking the similarities in the sharp cut of their jawlines or the height of their cheekbones. She even sees some of Lexa in the lift of his head. He has to be Claudius Scipio au Julii, Anya’s father and Lexa’s uncle, the most respected general in all of Rome. She’d heard he was recently returned from the Gallic front, but had not put the pieces together. They’re all arguing, but even from here, Clarke can tell that the others are looking to Lexa for answers. Even her uncle waits to let her speak before he offers his own opinion.

 

The Empress hasn’t had time to change from her ceremonial armor, but Clarke thinks the heaviness in Lexa is more from the news of the Roman loss than the thick metal plate. Clarke had heard the news through Anya, who’d hastily explained the situation to Raven while giving instructions for Tristan to take her to the Julii apartments in the city. Boudica had first attacked the legion sent to reinforce Londinium, ambushing them en route to the city and slaughtering them all, along with the governor of the territory. She’d then fallen on the defenseless and only partially-evacuated city, eliminating the garrison and killing every Roman man, woman and child she could find. It had been a massacre. Nearly 25,000 Romans dead, and only a fifth of that number were soldiers.

 

Rome is at war. Gustus had told her that the empire has been relatively peaceful for the last few years, ever since Lexa put down the last of the uprising that had begun when Octavian Augustus chose a non-relative female as his successor. Until now, talk of war with the Iceni, the Visigoths, or even the Amazons had been talk alone. But now the first blow has been struck, and not by Rome.

 

The anger and grief in the room are palpable, and it feels so physical that it’s disorienting when she realizes that rather than emotion alone, it’s an actual person who has blocked her from entering. She glares up at Titus, who scowls back down at her, arms crossed over his chest. “Not now, Amazon,” he bites, and when she opens her mouth to protest, adds quickly, “This is a Roman war council.”

 

“I am an ambassador of Rome,” she tries, not above pulling rank to get to the Empress.

 

Still, he stands in her path. “This involves the security of the Empire. You do not have the credentials to be in that room.”

 

Clarke grits her teeth. She has come to talk some sense into Lexa, and she’ll be damned if she’s going to let some bald-headed, self-important semblance of a man keep her from her goal. She raises her voice, pitching it over the murmur of the room, gambling. “I have come to see the Empress.”

 

A beat, a moment in which they just stare at each other, and then another voice rings out, crisp and clear and commanding. “Let her pass.”

 

A self-congratulating grin breaks across Clarke’s face, and Titus’s fists grip his sword until his knuckles whiten on the hilt. He steps aside, though not without first giving Clarke a look that promises retribution in the future. She pats him on the shoulder in mock consolation as she passes.

 

Lexa is excusing herself from her generals, stepping away into a corner of the room in an effort to give them a semblance of privacy. She does not reach for Clarke, and Clarke understands that they are truly in public now. Lexa must keep her distance, and Clarke must keep her own movements in check as well, must not give any indication of what lies between them. The lost, devastated look in Lexa’s eyes makes it so much harder not to touch her, not to pull her into her arms and simply hold the woman who’s taking on so much for her empire and her people that she doesn’t even have time to let herself grieve.

 

But her eyes still soften as she looks at Clarke, and her voice is gentle when she asks, “Are you alright, Clarke?”

 

Clarke blinks, letting herself register the impact of Lexa’s words. Even with her Empire on the brink of war, Lexa makes the time to care for her. It makes what she has to say even harder. She finds herself staring down at Lexa’s hands, trying to summon courage. Those hands had touched her so gently, with such reverence, this morning. They had wielded a greatsword with impressive strength just hours ago, ending the life of Clarke’s tribeswoman. Now, they flex at Lexa’s sides, as if she too has to resist the impulse to reach for Clarke in front of a room full of witnesses.

 

Clarke has to say something, before the silence becomes too obvious. “I need to talk to you.” An inauspicious start.

 

Lexa purses her lips, tilting her head slightly in question before glancing back towards her advisors on the side of the room. “It really isn’t a good time, Clarke,” she answers, already sounding distracted. “You may not have heard what happened, but…”

 

“I did,” Clarke interrupts, not wanting the other woman to have to say it out loud again. “I did, and it’s why I’m here.” Lexa’s emerald eyes narrow slightly, looking back and forth between Clarke’s own, and Clarke can see that she’s starting to understand what might have brought the Amazon in here now.

 

She bulls ahead. “The Iceni are stronger than you thought, Lexa. They’re going to be a real threat. If you let me go to my people now, let me tell them about your deal, what you said, then I might be able to convince them to fight with you. With the whole Amazon nation at your back, you can – “

 

But Lexa cuts her off with an upraised hand, the clench of her jaw indicating that this may be what she expected to hear, but it is not what she’d hoped for. “The danger has not passed, Clarke. I cannot allow you to go out there alone right now.”

 

The Amazon runs a hand through blonde curls, unbraided today, and grits her teeth. She’d planned for this particular protest. “What if I have an escort?” she offers, and watches in consternation as Lexa shakes her head.

 

“I doubt very much that showing up with a cohort of Roman legionnaires at your back will win you the goodwill of your people.”

 

Huffing out a breath, Clarke tries again. “My own soldiers, then, Amazons. Skaikru from the palace.” This earns her a suspicious look from Lexa, and the implication almost makes Clarke throw up her hands and storm out of the room right there. She remembers their surroundings in time and manages to keep her voice low, below the murmur of conversation in the room and hopefully the hearing range of curious ears. “After all we’ve been through, _Empress_ , how is it that you still do not trust me?”

 

Lexa is quiet for a long moment. Her fingers curl and uncurl at her sides before she brings them up and clasps them behind her back, looking to the side as if back at her soldiers and generals, still conversing over the map table. Clarke doesn’t think she really sees them though, not when Lexa takes a deep breath and turns back to her, letting her exhaustion show through. “Clarke,” she almost whispers, and the Amazon knows she’s lost. “What happens when you carry the news of Boudica’s victory to the Amazons? Do you think they will rush to the aid of an ancient enemy, powerful but hated and so recently defeated? Or do you think they will look instead to the fire-haired warrior from the north, with her tales of Roman brutality and a righteous thirst for vengeance? Who do you think your people will choose?”

 

Clarke takes a step back. She had not considered the situation in such a way. Lexa’s words are quiet, but there’s a bitterness to them that Clarke did not expect, almost as if the other woman thinks she deserves this battle, these hardships. It may not have been Roman soldiers who attacked Boudica and her family, but that doesn’t mean that Rome doesn’t have its share of blood on its hands.

 

But that isn’t Lexa. Of course Lexa has killed, she’s a soldier and Clarke saw her end a life only an hour ago – but she is not brutal. Again Clarke has to restrain the lift of her hands, this time from reaching for the woman across from her, from grasping her elbows and lifting her chin and showing her that Clarke doesn’t see the monster that Lexa believes herself to be. Not anymore. “I won’t tell them,” she tries feebly.

 

Apology flashes in verdant eyes before Lexa is closing off again, lost in an instant to the Empress and her steel gaze. “The answer is no, Clarke. And my time for this has run. I have other duties I must attend to.” She pauses. “I am sorry, Clarke.”

 

It doesn’t change anything that Clarke believes her.

 

\------------------------------------------------------

 

She has to go tonight. The certainty of it claws at her, tightening around her throat until she feels she will choke on it. There will be no better time, not with Lexa and the rest of the Romans distracted with their war planning.

 

She does not want to think about how Lexa will react to this. If she will see the necessity of it. If she will forgive her. Certainly, this will hurt her. Do reasons even matter when betrayal is the result?

 

But she can’t let herself be mired in her guilt. She has to move quickly or lose the chance forever. She is doing this, in part, _for_ Lexa. She still has a chance to save both their peoples, if she moves fast enough. She can still stop this war.

 

She needs to get to her chambers, to pack, but first there’s the matter of her new _Praetor_ to deal with. Octavia has only been guarding Clarke for a few hours, but the Amazon doesn’t need more time to see that Octavia is approaching her new assignment with the same dogged resolve as she’d shown when guarding Lexa. She’s going to have to get creative if she’s to get out of the palace unnoticed.

 

Instead of heading directly to her chambers to pack, she veers towards the infirmary, Octavia flanking her wordlessly as they make their way out across the courtyard. Clarke has been given charge of a small workspace off to the side of the infirmary, a chamber with only two solid walls, the other two being made of thick tanned hide which is kept rolled up during the day to let the sunlight in but brought down and tied to grounded stakes at night to keep the plants warm or cool, depending on the season. Now, the afternoon sunlight is beating down into the open structure, creating an oppressive heat that has sweat beginning to form on Clarke’s brow almost as soon as she steps outside.

 

She does not envy Octavia her armor at the moment, but the Roman makes no noise of complaint as Clarke begins strolling down the aisles, checking on the plants, occasionally stopping to pour water from the large ewer in the corner over one or to prune another. Every available surface is covered in greenery – long, trailing vines mixed with tiny, sharp-leafed plants and larger, colorful shrubs with waxy leaves that come from the distant south.

 

Clarke rounds the edge of one of the workshop’s long tables, heading towards a slim shelf in the corner that contains several cutting tools and small containers for the harvesting of medicinal herbs. Most of the actual preparation of medicines and cures is done elsewhere in the small infirmary, but Clarke had shown an aptitude early on for botany and been given charge of this greenhouse as a result. She pulls a long, flat-bladed knife from the shelf along with a thinner, sharper blade and a shallow bowl. Moving around to the other side of the room, she approaches a stretching stalk of a plant and begins to trim branches from it, humming to herself.

 

Octavia, sweating, slouches on a bench by one of the open walls, watching her work. As Clarke begins cutting deep horizontal gouges in the stems, one after another, Octavia asks, “What are you doing?”

 

It startles her, as the _Praetor_ hasn’t said a word since they’d left Lexa’s war rooms. But keeping Octavia talking will help convince her that everything is normal, so she begins to explain as she reaches for the bowl and places it on a shelf below her work. “This is _silphium_ ,” she tells her new bodyguard, pressing the flat of the blade down hard on the weakened stalk, causing a thin, slow drip of resin to ooze out. “It’s an analgesic – a pain reliever – but we also use it to prevent pregnancy in those who do not yet wish to bear children.”

 

The sap has become strong enough to be a flow, now, and is steadily draining into the bowl she’s placed beneath it. She waits long enough for it to be completely tapped out, then reaches for another stalk and repeats the process.

 

“Does it work?” Octavia asks, craning her neck to see better. Clarke raises an eyebrow at her, and the _Praetor_ flushes. “What?” she asks, feigning nonchalance. “If I’m going to be down here with you all the time, I might as well learn something. Battlefield medicine would be a useful skill to have.”

 

“Not sure pregnancy prevention counts as battlefield medicine,” Clarke says doubtfully, but rushes to answer when Octavia opens her mouth to argue. “But yes, it works most of the time.” She finishes with the last of the stalks she’d prepared, scooping up the bowl of resin and taking it back to the corner, where she selects a small jar with a stopper that she transfers the resin to. That done, she places the bowl on a side table stacked with similarly used implements for one of the kitchen slaves to come and gather. They will bring it back clean in the morning. The spent stalks go into a basket of other used plants, to be brought outside and added to a pile of plant leavings, which will break down and be used as part of the soil for new plants at the end of the season.

 

Satisfied that she’s cleaned up after herself, she turns back to Octavia. “If it’s battlefield medicine you’re interested in, I could show you a few things,” she offers, and is gratified when the _Praetor_ sits up straighter and nods to her. She can think of worse ways to bide her time until nightfall than teaching someone something that might help save a life, and the lesson will keep Octavia’s attention on the healing arts and not on making sure Clarke isn’t preparing to leave the palace. Which, of course, she is.

 

She spends the next half hour or so walking Octavia through various preparations of herbs and plants that can cleanse wounds, slow or prevent infection, relieve pain, and help stop bleeding, among other things. It’s all very educational, but she’s running out of time to make the preparations she really needs, so she calls an end to the lesson with the excuse that she is tired and would like a bath. She wouldn’t normally retire so early, but today is Octavia’s first day as her bodyguard, so she won’t have Clarke’s schedule memorized yet.

 

The _Praetor_ simply nods and rises to her feet. “What are those for?” she asks as Clarke snips a few stems from a red flowering plant on the way out, folding her arms around them. Clarke shrugs at her. “Most people use them to dull pain or to help them sleep.” She grins sheepishly. “I just noticed that the Empress seems to like flowers.”

 

She feels bad for the lie, and the feeling only gets worse when Octavia shoots her a pleased, conspiratorial smile. “You worked things out then,” she says, and Clarkes nods, telling herself that what she has planned is worth it. Octavia may be her bodyguard, may be not as bad as Clarke had initially thought, may even be becoming friendly towards her… but she is no friend to her people. She is loyal only to Lexa, and right now, that puts them at odds. She is doing what needs to be done.

 

\----------------------------------------------------

 

She repeats the sentiment like a mantra later that night when she’s finished packing her meager belongings – some clothing, a light cloak, a sharp knife, some herbs, and a blanket – and places the red flowers in her washbasin. She rips off part of one of the togas Lexa has given her and ties it around her mouth and nose, making sure it is secure and that she draws breath mostly through her mouth. Then she takes the oil lamp from her dressing table, lit earlier by one of the servants, and dumps it into the bowl.

 

The poppies catch slowly, tendrils of flame flickering up around the edges of the leaves, then consuming more and more of the plant as smoke begins to curl and rise into the air of her room.

 

Octavia is in the hall guarding the door, and the smoke must be visible out there because her _Praetor_ is calling out to her in concern. “Clarke?” she hears her own name shouted through the thick wood, and then Clarke herself is screaming. “Fire! Octavia, help, there’s a fire!”

 

Her reaction time is really quite impressive. Clarke has barely gotten the words out when Octavia is through the door and at her side, gaze frantically searching Clarke’s body for any signs of injury. Her expression of fear and worry turns to puzzlement when she catches sight of the carefully controlled fire in the basin, and then of the way Clarke stands unconcerned nearby. When she catches sight of the cloth around Clarke’s face, her eyes widen in realization.

 

“You,” she stutters, accusing, and lurches forward at Clarke.

 

The smoke works quickly, and it is nothing for Clarke to step forward and catch the slumping _Praetor_ in her arms and lower her to the ground. “I am sorry, Octavia,” she says, and means it. There is only black rage in Octavia’s eyes as she struggles to move against Clarke, to get up, until she loses the battle, drifting into a dazed half-slumber.

 

Clarke extinguishes the fire before she leaves, smothering it a few hasty beats of the rest of the toga. She waits until she is out of the chamber and away from the smoke before removing the facial covering, moving quickly down the hall. She must be away from here before Octavia wakes up and warns everyone. Or even worse, before someone finds the Aquilli lying prone and sounds the alarm.

 

The kitchens are first on her list, as she’s going to need food for her journey. She isn’t sure how she’s going to get the food out without arousing suspicion, but she’s going to have to improvise. At first glance, the kitchen seems empty when she arrives, and Clarke thanks all the gods she can think of as she stuffs a few rolls and some fruit into her satchel. She’s looking for the dried meat when she hears a rustling noise behind her and turns to see Niylah coming in, carrying an oversized basket of fresh hen’s eggs.

 

“Clarke,” she says in surprise, and then gives the Amazon a shy smile. “What are you doing here?”

 

They haven’t spoken since that night they had sex, nearly exactly where they’re standing now. Clarke knows that she should have talked to the girl before, should have explained, but she hadn’t wanted to deal with the awkwardness and there had been other things on her mind. She thinks about what to say now, how to evade the fledgling glimmer of hope in the other woman’s eyes, but can only watch as Niylah’s gaze flickers down to the half-open satchel of food and supplies in Clarke’s hands.

 

She can’t imagine what her expression must be like as she gapes at the other woman, caught. Niylah’s eyes widen in shock, but she quickly crosses the room, removing three eggs from the basket and depositing them in Clarke’s sack without comment. The other blonde moves efficiently about the kitchen, pulling the dried meat that Clarke was looking for from a back room and gathering a wheel of hard cheese and some root vegetables as well. To top it off, Niylah gathers a small pouch of salt and spices, rolling the supplies carefully in a bundle before crossing the room back to Clarke.

 

“You’re going,” she says, and it isn’t a question. Clarke can only nod, throat bobbing. She can barely believe her luck at finding someone to help her without question. Niylah nods back, holding the bundle out to Clarke in offering. She takes it wordlessly, and Niylah lets their hands brush for a moment before she drops her arms to her sides. “Travel north and east, Clarke of the Skaikru,” she says in a near whisper. “You will find your people there.”

 

Clarke tilts her head to the side, about to ask how the kitchen slave would know such a thing, but there are booted footsteps in the hall and suddenly Niylah is pushing her towards the servant’s entrance. “Go to the stables,” she hisses, “and find Wells. He’ll get you out safely.” She risks a hurried glance over her shoulder, then leans forward and kisses Clarke soundly before the Amazon can react. “Take care, Clarke.”

 

And then she is gone, back out into the main kitchen and greeting a legionnaire who has apparently come down for a late supper. Clarke can barely hear the muted conversation, but it does not appear that anyone has noticed anything amiss just yet. She turns and walks slowly down the hall, hoping she looks normal enough to escape notice.

 

Apparently she does. She doesn’t find Wells, but she does manage to free a spirited white colt from a stall at the end of the stables. She does not bother with the tack; Amazons are natural riders and do not use the saddles and reins that Romans so heavily rely on. Bareback, she trots the young horse through the streets of Rome, past the open gates and into the night beyond. She is grateful that the war still seems far enough away that the city has not closed its walls.

 

The guards will mark her leaving, she knows. It does not matter. She will get a lengthy start on anyone who might follow. Without anything better to guide her than Niylah’s curious command, Clarke points her horse east and rides.

 

\-----------------------------------------

 

Lexa wants nothing more than to find Clarke and sink into the comfort of her feathered mattress with the Amazon in her arms. She knows, logically, that this should frighten her - that getting too attached to the other woman too quickly could be unspeakably dangerous for the both of them. But the day has been long, and she is weary, and she only wants a long, warm bath and the comfort of a beautiful woman in her arms. And lately, the only beautiful woman she’s interested in is the Skaikru queen.

 

It isn’t normal for her, to be so taken with a woman. Even with Costia, she’d shared her bed with others up until nearly the end of that relationship. And even at the end, she had abstained more from guilt at the thought of hurting the other woman than any actual lack of desire. But Clarke… other women didn’t even seem to exist when Clarke was around. Women she’d slept with before, women who she had connected with, enjoyed her time with, suddenly seem… lesser. Less interesting, less challenging, less desirable. No one could pull her focus away from the stubborn, gorgeous Amazon who consumed her thoughts.

 

She forces her mind back to the present, back to her wearied advisors and generals and her adopted son, all of whom are looking to her for final orders. They’ve been in this room for hours now, debating, and it’s past time she dismissed them to go about their respective duties and to get some well-deserved rest. She strides to the front of the room, lifting her chin and shoulders as she prepares to address the crowd.

 

“We are at war,” she tells them bluntly. “Boudica is a mouse that has bloodied a lion. Others will see this, and think that perhaps other mice might have a chance too. They will see weakness and will seek to use it. We must show them strength. We must show them the might of Rome!” She roars the last part, rallying, and she does not let her volume decrease as she goes on.

 

“There are enemies all about us, but we are stronger still, stronger than all of them! Let them feel the might of Rome! _Senatus Populus Que Romanus!_ _Simul nos vincimus!”_

They cheer back at her, raising their arms, some clapping their swords or daggers against walls or shields, if they have them. In the cramped chamber, the clatter echoes ever louder, swelling until it pounds in her ears like the sounds of war drums. The warrior in her drinks it in, lets it wash over her and revels in the sound. Soon, there will be steel. Soon, there will be battle. But until then, she has a war to plan. She dismisses them all to their beds with a hearty reprimand, one that has her soldiers laughing and filing away to their beds. She wishes, more than anything, that she could do the same.

 

But Indra stays, and Gustus and Marcus, and Lexa finds herself still with them, staring over the maps on the table. Indra speaks first. “I still think we should attack the Visigoths outright,” she grumbles. “We have the greater numbers, and they’re the greatest threat. Let’s just get on with it already.”

 

Lexa smiles, amused despite her weariness. “We’ve been over this,” she answers, almost gently. “We have greater numbers, but we would have to focus the whole of our standing army in order to do so. If we do that, we not only expose our own backs to the Iceni and the Amazons, but we also leave all of Rome vulnerable to threats from the outside. I cannot leave my people to fend for themselves. We need a different plan.”

 

The older general grimaces, but she nods. It’s an argument she’s put forward before, and she expected the defeat. “As you say, my liege. But still, this waiting… Already, Rome grows restless. Your Senators speak openly of your inaction as weakness.”

 

Marcus nods in affirmation. “It is true, Empress. They are planting the seeds of rebellion, even as we speak.”

 

Lexa nods thoughtfully. “It isn’t the first time the Senate has challenged my leadership,” she answers, grim. “Still, we must act soon. The people will not tolerate anything else.”

 

It surprises everyone when Aden speaks up. Thus far, the young man has been only an ensemble player in this saga, removed and largely forgotten. “We should ally with the Amazons,” he says, as if this hasn’t been suggested before. “Clarke of the Skaikru should suggest it on our behalf. The Iceni are too unpredictable, and Clarke’s stature with the Amazons can only help us.” He pauses, looking at them all in turn. “We’ve spoken of how the Amazons can help defend Rome,” he says bluntly, “But we’re likely going to need to figure out how to help the Amazons in return for their aid.”

 

Lexa nods at him, encouraging. “A good idea,” she praises, “and one that Clarke of the Skaikru and I have discussed recently. I believe we can come to an agreement, but would rather flesh it out some more before speaking publicly of my proposal.” Her advisors look at her, some curious, some wary, and Lexa loses the battle against her exhaustion. She rubs at the bridge of her nose. “Let us adjourn for the evening. We’ve made what preparations we can tonight and we’ll get nothing further accomplished on no rest. Meet back here at first light.”

 

No one argues with the announcement, a sure sign that everyone else is as tired as she is. Slowly they file out of the war room, Lexa herself bringing up the rear with Titus flanking her. She thinks about going to Clarke, or calling the other woman to her; thinks about pulling her body flush against hers and nuzzling her nose down into blonde hair as they sink into slumber. But it is late, and she tempted fate enough with her visit last night. Best not to risk it again.

 

Resigned, she heads in the direction of her own quarters, barely keeping her head up and her eyes open as she trudges along. But she’s startled awake at the sight of Lincoln standing at her door, a nearly unconscious Octavia draped across his shoulders, limp.

 

Her weariness fading, Lexa lengthens her stride. “What happened?” she barks out, gesturing at Octavia. “Is she…?”

 

“Alive,” he confirms, “But drugged, I think.” He swallows, and Lexa reads something more in his eyes. Something he’s afraid to say.

 

A cold feeling creeps over her, numbing her limbs and encapsulating her heart, the knowledge certain and unrelenting. When she speaks, her voice is as frostbitten as she feels. “And Clarke?”

 

He flinches, confirming it. “She’s gone.”

 

\--------------------------------------

 

Half a candlemark later, Lexa is packed and on horseback, struggling to control her impatient shifting as she waits for Indra to finish her preparations and mount _Fortem._ They don’t have much time. She’d checked the stables over while selecting her own mount, and found exactly what she’d both dreaded and expected. _Ventus_ is missing. She’d known that, as an Amazon, Clarke would have a good eye for horseflesh, but had hoped, it now seems in vain, that she wouldn’t find and take the fastest horse in the Imperial stables.

 

It is why she’s chosen _Silvis_ , the silvery grey mare who, although not first or even second in Lexa’s stable in terms of speed, can run miles beyond the other horses without beginning to show signs of exhaustion. If _Fortem_ could keep up – and Indra assured her he could – they would catch Clarke by the morning after next.

 

Indra’s discreet cough pulls her away from her thoughts. Her general is seated, _Fortem_ stamping impatiently at the ground as his master awaits Lexa’s orders. She’s too anxious to feel much embarrassment, simply nodding curtly and wheeling _Silvis_ around, toward the road north and east and, hopefully, toward Clarke.

 

The pace they set is brisk, but not punishing. Lexa brought only Indra of all of her warriors, citing the need for speed over caution. It does not mean they will be travelling alone, however. They ride only a few moments in silence before they catch sight of a hooded, cloaked figure waiting on the side of the road, slender silhouette dark against the bright relief of the moonlight. Anya. Her cousin and, for all intents and purposes, her sister. One of the three people she trusts most in this world. One of the others is at her back, and the last is back at her palace, guarding Anya’s son. She’s asked Gustus to make sure Aden has everything he needs in her absence, and that he stays in power should anything happen to her out here.

 

The trip must be swift, but it must also be secret. No one in the city or Senate can know what transpired this night, or Lexa’s position may be weakened enough to embolden the Senators to attack her, sparking a civil war. With all of the outside enemies threatening Rome, she does not have the time – and possibly not the manpower – to put down a rebellion at this moment. She’s already had the men stationed at the gates Clarke had left through promoted to far-flung posts in Egypt, slated to leave on ships tonight. Lincoln and Octavia, the latter still recovering from the effects of Clarke’s drugs, have gone to ensure that they make their berths.

 

Anya trots out to meet them, and Lexa is surprised – and annoyed – to see another form take shape beside her, also on horseback.

 

“Did I not ask you to come alone?” she asks her cousin when they’re close enough, shooting a pointed glance at Raven, a few paces back but approaching the rest of the party.

 

Anya doesn’t look at all sorry, her vulpine face tilting sideways as she answers. “She was with me when your messenger arrived, and insisted on coming when she learned her queen was in danger. As your message stressed the need to move quickly, I assumed that you would rather me bring her along than waste time arguing about it.” She pauses. “She is a capable rider, even with –”And Lexa is surprised to see her cheeks darken slightly at Raven’s warning glare when the Julii gestures vaguely at her injured leg. “And she may even be useful to us, if we do run into the Amazons.”

 

Indra snorts loudly at this, drawing the other women’s attention to her. “That one,” she says, nodding her head at the former Amazon warrior, “Will betray us as easily as breathing the moment she gets the chance.”

 

Raven bristles, hands tightening on her reins. “Because you’ve done so much to deserve my loyalty, Roman?” she bites back, ignoring Anya’s clear unspoken command to leave it be. “I will do what it takes to protect my _kwin_ , and if that means working with you Romans,” she almost spits the word out, “then I will do it. For now.”

 

Indra scoffs at this. “This is exactly what I mean! The girl has no love for Rome, and no loyalty to her mistress,” she argues, glancing apologetically at Anya. “She’s a liability.”

 

“The girl can speak for herself,” begins Raven, shaking off Anya’s pacifying hand on her own.

 

They don’t have time for this. Lexa raises a hand, throwing command behind her tone. “Enough!” She orders, and to everyone’s surprise, everyone stops talking – including Raven. She looks at her cousin, who lifts her head proudly, clearly indicating that she is not going to apologize for the behavior of her servant.

 

Lexa sighs inwardly. She remembers having conversations with Anya as a young girl, discussing the scourge of slavery in the Empire and the various ways they might be able to begin to dismantle it. Anya’s father had forbidden them both from openly advocating against the practice, citing the potential danger to their family, and when Lexa had been chosen as heir a few years later, she had been forced to set aside her personal beliefs and consider the good of the Empire. The societal, financial and structural disruption that would take effect if she ended slavery in the Empire completely could easily mean the downfall of the Empire as they knew it. So she was going slowly, promoting captured soldiers through the ranks by merit, paying her household slaves, and providing a pathway to freedom, encouraging like-minded nobles to do the same. It was not enough – would not be enough in her lifetime – but it was a start.

 

But Anya had never accepted the practice. It was a well-kept secret that nearly all of the servants Anya employed were both paid and free, most having been set free by Anya herself after her husband had purchased them. Displaced from their lands, separated from their families and having spent most of their lives in slavery, almost all of them stayed and continued to serve. She wondered if Anya had freed the Amazon yet, or if – as Indra said – this defiance was simply a result of a shortened time in captivity.

 

Lexa meets Anya’s blazing eyes, reading the message there. She says it out loud for Indra’s sake. “You trust her?” A nod. “And you will stand for her, if anything goes wrong?” A slight hesitation, and then another nod.

 

It’s good enough. “Then let’s go. We’ve wasted enough time on this already.” Indra does not protest, her Empress’s words final in her mind, and they turn back to the task at hand.

 

\---------------------------------------------

 

Raven is a good rider, Lexa observes several hours later. Amazons are an equestrian society, able to vault onto a horse’s back with the beast at a full gallop, shoot bows with deadly accuracy while dangling from the saddle, and control their mounts with a precision unmatched by any other people save those perhaps in the mountainous regions of the far east. Still, despite Anya’s reassurances, Lexa had wondered if the woman’s injury would slow her or make her awkward in the saddle. The withered leg seems to have virtually no effect, however. Raven mounts her gelding with a grace that Lexa has not yet seen from her on the ground. She’s silently thankful for it.

 

There is little energy to spare for conversation at the pace Lexa sits, the four women hurtling like determined hounds through the night after their quarry. Lexa does not want to think about what will happen to Clarke should she be captured by Nia. The camp should be miles away from the Amazons, but if they are close enough to exchange emissaries, they’re also close enough to exchange spies. Any camp large enough is bound to have plenty of new followers joining every day, and even a culture as insular as the Amazons will still have unfamiliar faces when the clans all meet together for the first time in a generation. Spies are a necessary evil, and accepted part of war. But if a Visigoth spy were to see Clarke…

 

She has to assume that Nia has spies in the palace, too. If nothing else, the events of the last few weeks have proven that. Costia has proven that. The knowledge of Costia’s attack, of Clarke’s role in stopping it, is public. Lexa herself has made sure of it. Lexa still does not believe the Junia acted as she did out of some sense of filial duty. She also knows that Nia’s spies must have heard of Clarke having rushed to her aid after the Iceni attack, must have heard of how Clarke cared for her personally after. Hopefully, Nia does not know the extent of how important Clarke really is to Lexa, but she will know that the Amazon Queen has value. It might be enough to provoke her to capture Clarke, to seek information from her, and if that happens… She has to get to her first.

 

It’s near mid-morning by the time they find the first sign of her, the remains of a burnt-out campsite, fresh enough that a few embers still glow in the fire pit. The ground is still somewhat damp from the dew of the night before, and there are hoof prints under a nearby tree bearing the familiar high-cross stamp of a horseshoe of the Imperial army. She knows what it means, but wants confirmation.

 

“Indra?” she asks, pointing to the marks. The general dismounts quickly and walks over to where Lexa is crouching in the dirt, bending down into a similar position. “Imperial shoes,” she confirms, nodding thoughtfully. “With the armies coming closer to Rome, our scouts have been ranging out in wider territories. Still, it would be a strange coincidence for anyone to be passing through this particular area right now.”

 

“It’s her,” Raven confirms. She has dismounted as well and is circling the campfire, eyes on the ground. She leans down and picks up what looks like a long piece of wire tied between two pieces of wood, anchored in a thicker piece and then tied around a thinner piece and looped back into itself at the large end. “This is a Skaikru trapping snare.”

 

Lexa and Indra turn from the hoof prints, stepping over to the fire pit next to Raven. Indra holds out a hand and, after a moment’s hesitation, Raven hands over the snare, watching us the older woman turns it over in her hands, studying it.

 

“There’s a stream over here,” comes Anya’s voice from just around a small cluster of trees, and Lexa raises her head.

 

“Let’s water and rest the horses here,” she decides, aware that they’ve been riding their mounts hard. “Two candlemarks, and then we’re back to the road.” The others nod, accepting this, and begin to lead their horses to the stream to let them drink their fill before tying them up and settling down to eat their own simple but satisfying meals of hard cheese, bread and dried venison, packed before they left Rome. They eat in relative silence, and soon everyone is leaning back on their blankets, trying to catch up on some much-needed sleep.

 

All but Lexa, who volunteered to take watch because she knows that trying to sleep right now will be futile. She can’t think of anything but getting to Clarke.

 

\---------------------------------------------

 

Clarke sticks to the north Roman road, and hopes she is going the right way. She isn’t sure how far behind Lexa’s soldiers are, but she hasn’t seen any sign of pursuit, so she feels comfortable enough to relax and let her horse slow a bit. It’s possible that no one is following her at all, she supposes, but she doubts it. Lexa won’t give up that easily, and she can’t afford to let her prize Amazon escape without a fight. She tries to ignore the part of her that wonders if the Empress might be worried about her personally, as well.

 

She’s been away from the palace for a day and a half or so, now, and in that time she hasn’t met many travelers along the great Roman _via_. The wide stone pathway has long been a source of pride for the Empire, connecting their conquered territories all along the Mediterranean coast, ensuring that the trade in Rome is always thriving. Lead and wool from Brittania, purple dye and glass from Tyre and Byblos, food from Ostia via the Tiber, and spices and lumber from Africa. She knows from sitting in on Lexa’s meetings that these roads are both boon and burden; the other woman spends nearly as much time entertaining complaints about the need for repair as she does the merchants who travel them to sell their wares.

 

She finds herself smiling and immediately frowns. This is not the time to think of her fledgling romance with the Empress of Rome. She is an Amazon Queen, traveling to save her people, and she must think of them first. What have the Broadleaf been telling them? Harper is a skilled warrior and a strong leader, but she doesn’t have the mind for politics. Clarke doubts that, if she has been left in charge, Diana has been shown any real resistance.

 

Clarke has met the new High Queen only a few times, at the Queens’ Council. Every three years, the queens of all clans gather at the seat of the High Queen to reaffirm their commitment to the Amazon Nation, putting the welfare of all Amazons above that of just one tribe. It’s largely symbolic, but the queens bring retinues with them and there are many days of celebration. It’s the only time outside of emergency war councils that the Amazons all gather together. They’d had the last one only last year.

 

It means that what is happening now is a war council. The Amazon Nation is preparing for war on Rome in retaliation for the slaughter and enslavement of the Skaikru tribe. Once, she would have been right alongside her sisters in singing for Roman blood. But now, she’s seen their armies. She’s seen their soldiers, and their equipment, and their numbers. She’s seen their walls. She’s seen their leader. And she knows what suicide it would be for her sisters to take this on. Better to become part of their Empire and keep the Amazon Nation strong and as independent as possible. It is not their way, not _jus drein jus daun_ , but if she can just get to them she’s sure she can convince at least some of her sisters to see reason.

 

And if she can’t? If Diana won’t allow it? She’s not sure what she will do. She is no warrior, to issue the challenge. Once, she would have done so and called Raven to stand for her, but even if the warrior would do so now, she would not be able to win against Diana with her leg injury. Clarke isn’t even sure that the Amazons would accept her as High Queen – she, the adopted child of Abbinius, not even an Amazon by birth.

 

She’s deep enough in thought that she doesn’t hear the hoofbeats at first. It’s a problem, because once she does even the speed of _Ventus_ doesn’t seem enough as her large colt launches himself into motion at the click of her heels, powerful muscles transitioning seamlessly from a trot to a full on gallop. He’s one of the strongest animals she’s ever seen, his hind legs massive with tightly packed muscle, his body sleek and sinewy. She is almost certain that if she had had another moment’s warning, just one, that she could have outrun them.

 

But it is not to be, and the riders round the bend on her own heels, moving too fast at first to see who they are. It takes her another few moments of wild chase to crane her neck back again and catch a surprisingly familiar face. _Raven?_ She shifts her weight backwards, indicating her intention to _Ventus_ , and when he slows a bit she squeezes her thighs slightly, keeping her weight back, just enough to let him know that she wants him to stop, but not to rear. She isn’t sure, but she wouldn’t be surprised if this colt was trained for battle, and the last thing she needs is to get thrown from her horse because he’s reared up to kick an imaginary foe.

 

She pulls him in a tight circle, taking stock of the faces around her, exposed now as they slow their own mounts. It’s Raven, all right, along with Anya and Indra and – _oh._ Lexa has not sent soldiers after Clarke. Lexa has come herself.

 

For a moment she feels an irrational anger at the other woman. Doesn’t she know how dangerous it is to be traveling like this? Doesn’t she care about how much work Clarke has put into keeping her alive? But then Lexa is looking at her, soft and relieved and _so hurt_ – and it’s all Clarke can do to keep herself from babbling an apology and reaching out for her.

 

They both manage to maintain their composure, or so they think. If the way Indra looks at Anya and rolls her eyes and Raven starts to pale as she looks back and forth between them is any indication, they’re slightly less subtle than would be ideal. Still, Lexa keeps a straight face as she walks her smaller mare towards Clarke, both the horse and her master keeping their heads high.

 

“Clarke,” she begins, and Clarke almost breaks at the sound of Lexa saying her name like that, with such coldness, but then there is a sound from above, a light snapping, and then Lexa is pushing Clarke down in the saddle as she screams a single word: “ _Sith!_ ”

 

Everything stills for a moment. Indra and Anya halt in place in their rush to get to Lexa, to protect their Empress. Raven freezes with her arms out, searching for Clarke. Into the silence, Lexa yells, “I wish to speak to your leader! I claim the Traveller’s Right!”

 

From the trees drops a young man with flame red hair, wearing clothes made of animal leather and fur, a strange blue paint smeared in curled designs around his face and eyes. He is thin, but not malnourished, scrawny in the way of a youth still teetering on the cusp of manhood with the beginnings of a beard brambling on his jaw. He says something in garbled Celtic that it takes Clarke a moment to get out. _Murderers are not entitled to Traveller’s Right._

Clarke is about to respond, to translate for Lexa, when the other woman answers in perfect Gaelic, “That is not your decision, but your leader’s.”

 

Her mouth drops open. Thinking back, she realizes that Lexa had shouted in the language of the Celts just a moment ago, as well. Has Lexa always spoken Gaelic? If so, she wouldn’t have needed Clarke’s services as a translator… Which means Lexa just wanted to keep her close. To learn about her, to see whether she would give an accurate translation. A test.

 

She doesn’t have time to concentrate on her irritation, however, because the red-headed man is yelling something to the trees, an undulating cry that sounds unnervingly like a call to war. Several other shapes drop around them, surrounding the small group, and Clarke feels Lexa shift her mount closer, trying to position herself between the bulk of the Celts and Clarke. Indra and Anya both have hands on their swords and Raven, for her part, seems to have accepted that Lexa is trying to protect her _kwin_ and pushes around to Clarke’s other side, forming a small barrier against their enemies.

 

A tall, shaggy man steps out of the center of the gathered crowd, his green, calculating eyes a bit like Lexa’s own. He barks something to the gathered Celts, too quick for Clarke to understand. She doesn’t think Lexa’s gotten it either, because when one steps up to take the reins of her mount the mare shies away, sensing the anxiety of her rider.

 

The tall man shakes his head in frustration and says, slowly, “Boudica will speak with you. Come now.”

 

The small group of Romans and Amazons exchanges glances with little confidence and less choice. Almost as one, they drop their hold on the reins and let the Celts lead their horses into the trees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Silphium - a rare, but effective ancient contraceptive, now extinct  
> Senatus Populus Que Romanus – For the Senate and People of Rome, the motto of Rome and, as far as I can tell, still used once the Republic became the Empire  
> Simul nos vincimus – Together we conquer  
> Fortem = Strength  
> Ventus = Wind  
> Silvis = Woods ☺  
> via = Road. The Romans started building them in 300 BC to connect their Empire, and I can imagine that in Lexa’s time – 250ish years later, they probably would have been something she needed to constantly repair. This is also where the phrase “all roads lead to Rome” comes from.  
> Sith = Peace, in Scottish Gaelic, which maybe = Celtic? Are those the same thing? I don’t know. No one on the Internet thinks that Celtic is a language, so it’s probably been wrong in all the preceding chapters. Sorry guys.


	18. XVII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Guys, Celtic mythology is super interesting. I fell down a long rabbit hole doing the research on this and I feel like there's so much more to learn! Side note: if this fic didn't teach you this before now, I'm a nerd.
> 
> I did a little shifting and rearranging when I was writing this chapter, so some of the planned plot points are in different places now and there are a few new ones. Also, I've condensed it a bit, so I'm not sure if it will be the original 30 chapters I had planned - might be more like 25. I'll keep you updated when I have a final count. Thanks for sticking with this and I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Also, I'm jaimeajamais on Tumblr if anyone has questions about any of the Roman stuff or anything else!

Part of Lexa is relieved when they do not stumble immediately into the Iceni camp, but instead take three days of hard travel to get there. The group that had ambushed them was an advance party, a group of scouts bolstered by guards in case there was trouble. Not a usual tactic – the heavier soldiers slowed down the scouts – but with so many armies trampling the Roman countryside, it would make sense for Boudica to be cautious. The good news is that the Celts aren’t as close as she’d feared.

 

On the other hand, it puts her at least a week out from returning to the city, virtually guaranteeing that her absence will be noticed. Any hope she had of concealing Clarke’s flight is now gone. She would have to be blessed by Mendacius himself to lie her way out of this one.

 

They travel by day, constantly under guard by the tall leader – his name is Maedoc - and his soldiers, discouraged from speaking to either their captors or to each other. The leader affords Lexa little of the respect that she is due as the Empress of the Empire to which he and his people belong, eyeing her distrustfully at every turn and speaking to her only when absolutely necessary. But his soldiers do not mistreat her or her companions – do not even strip them of their weapons, not after the first man had reached for Raven’s dagger and nearly lost an eye for his trouble. It is not dignified, but Lexa is not thinking of her dignity just now.

 

Once they’re in the camp itself, it will be harder for them to escape. Knowing this doesn’t change anything. They’re outnumbered three to one, and while she might be willing to face those odds with Anya and Indra at her side, she cannot risk it with Clarke and Raven in their party. Raven might be able to acquit herself well enough to help, even injured, but she will not be mobile enough to take on three men herself, and she won’t be able to keep up if they need to make a quick escape. And Clarke, talented with a throwing blade as she is, is not a warrior. Lexa could fight for her, maybe, but she can’t do that and protect her at the same time. And if anything happens to Clarke…

 

As if she can read her thoughts, the woman in question glances back at Lexa from her place ahead of her in the column. Their escort’s prohibition against communication between them has meant that she hasn’t had a chance to talk to Clarke, and looking at her now, all the hurt and relief and anger roils up in her again, the emotion acid in her throat.

 

They study each other for a long moment. Clarke looks at her like she has every other time they’ve matched gazes since that last encounter in the forest, apology evident in every flicker of her eyes, every tightening of her lips or her hands on the reins, every slight shift in Lexa’s direction when their horses pull even with each other. She looks like she wants forgiveness, but does not know how to ask. Lexa grinds her teeth and looks away, just as she has every other time.

 

She is still angry. Clarke disobeyed a direct command to rush out here on her own, with little preparation and less likelihood of success. She has to know that if Lexa had not come after her, had not caught up before the Celts did and claimed Traveller’s Right, Clarke would surely be dead right now. She curls her free hand into a fist, the other clutching the reins hard enough that her mount pulls back his head, dancing to the side.   One of the Celts looks up at her and she stares him down until he moves on.

 

What makes it worse is that Lexa knows exactly what Clarke’s apology means. Knows that even through all of the guilt and contrition, Clarke would do it again. That she is not saying, _I’m sorry for what I did_ but rather _I’m sorry for what it did to you_. Clarke would always choose her people first, but she had not wanted to hurt Lexa in the process. It’s just that it wasn’t about Lexa. Not about her, or escaping captivity, or Rome – not about Clarke, either, when it came down to it. It was about giving her people a leader in a time of war, uniting them in purpose and vision, and keeping Diana of the Broadleaf from changing them fundamentally with her harsh ways. It was about ideology and the direction of her people’s future.

 

Lexa never really stood a chance at keeping her from them. She believed Clarke when the Amazon told her that she would try to find a way to help Rome, that she believed, like Lexa, that the path forward for Clarke’s own people lay in joining them to hers. But Clarke will always be, first and foremost, their Queen. She cannot abdicate her duty to her people any more than Lexa can. And though Lexa cannot blame her for that, though the truth of it does little to tame her temper.

 

It _does_ solidify a fear that she’s held privately since they began, a certainty nesting inside her, curling around her bones. They cannot be together, no matter what they may both desire. Their lives are not their own, and just as Lexa cannot prioritize her own happiness over the good of her Empire, neither can Clarke allow consideration for Lexa’s position to influence her vision for her people. Every move she makes to strengthen Clarke weakens her own grip on power, threatening to slide Rome and all its territories into civil war. As long as their people are at odds, there will be no chance for them, and Lexa has no political capital left to waste on the hope that they will be united. She has put herself, her cousin, and her oldest friend, not to mention three of the most powerful women in all of Rome, in mortal danger for her own heart. It cannot continue.

 

When Lexa looks back at Clarke, the Amazon is still looking at her. Wanting an answer to the question she’s been silently asking since they were reunited. _Can we get past this?_ But there is so much to be said, and this is not the time or the place. Feeling like a coward, Lexa digs her heels into _Silvis_ ’s sides, spurring the fleet-footed mare past the rest of the group and leaving Clarke behind her.

 

\---------------------------------------------------

 

The Iceni camp is bigger than Clarke expected. She’s heard the reports from Lexa’s scouts, but seeing it in person makes the threat materialize in a way that an oral report never could. Small wonder Londinium had fallen so easily. The Celts are everywhere, sprawled out around tents and campfires, laughing with their fellows and carousing with camp followers. Even though only one man in ten looks to be a regular soldier, with boiled leather armor and real iron instead of a farmer’s scythe or a blacksmith’s hammer, there are enough of them to make a challenge for Lexa’s forces, especially if the troops she recalled from the borders don’t make it back in time.

 

Thinking about Lexa opens a wound in her that seems infinite, a gaping hole with no edges and no bottom. Lexa has barely looked at Clarke in the past few days, moving away whenever the Amazon gets close. She didn’t expect to be greeted with open arms, but she’d hoped that she could at least have a chance to explain. But the Celts have made that difficult, and based on Lexa’s behavior, she’s not sure the other woman even minds the forced separation. She tries instead to focus on her surroundings – how far they’ve come, the size of the camp, the locations of the guards and potential exits. The tent they are led to is at the very center of the camp, where it is easy to protect and difficult to escape from without being noticed.  It’s bigger than those around it, but otherwise unremarkable. The same dry, sun-bleached hide stretches over the top and the same small cookfire burns out front. Aside from the size, the only differences are the scowling pair of brutes guarding the entrance and the crude banner flying from a long wooden pole in front, a white background with a savage black bear in the foreground.

 

The guard on the left disappears into the tent for a few moments and then re-emerges and barks something in Gaelic to their escort. The leader does not answer back, but simply shoves the flap aside and then reaches to shove Clarke through it. He is pulled up short with a curse, looking behind himself to identify who had stepped on his ankle. Raven is the picture of innocence, blinking owlishly up at him, and she is spared further scrutiny when Lexa clips the guard in the shoulder with her own as she brushes past. The rest are allowed to walk through on their own after that.

 

The tent is even larger inside than she had originally thought. There are furs stretching across the floor, wild, shaggy things, and iron braziers are sunk into the ground along both sides, unlit at this time of day and year. They form a straight line leading the way to the raised dais at the far end of the tent. There can be little doubt as to whom the woman seated on the elevated seat on that dais is. Boudica stands when they enter, her gaze never leaving Lexa as the Empress pushes past Indra and Anya, who had both stepped in front of her at the first sign of movement from the Iceni Queen. Clarke catches Raven about to do the same thing and waves her back impatiently. They do not need to reveal the dynamics of their relationship just yet.

 

“It has been a long time, Empress of Rome. I will admit that news of your arrival came as a surprise,” the Celtic Queen begins, her familiarity catching Clarke off-guard. She and Lexa know each other? Boudica speaks in the language of the Celts, and Clarke registers that she and Lexa will be the only two to understand the conversation. “What is the Empress of Rome doing riding about in the countryside with a war brewing, and practically alone?”

 

Guilt hooks her spine and pulls inward. Lexa is here for her, has risked everything to get her back. Lexa, who will not forgive her. Lexa, who she’d sacrificed for her people. Lexa who lifts her head and stared straight back at the woman looming over her, proud and magnificent even after days of hard riding and the emotional toll of Clarke’s betrayal.

 

“We had reports you were in the area,” she replies, the words rolling so smoothly from her tongue that they make the deception about her not speaking the language seem ridiculous. “This is a group of trusted aides and diplomats. I had hoped to speak with you. There has been much misunderstanding between us, Boudica, and our peoples bleed for it. I would have this settled.”

 

Boudica squints at her as if trying to determine the truth behind the words. She is a tall woman, almost of a height with Lexa, and her eyes are a green that’s almost gray, the color of river stones compared to Lexa’s piercing sylvan gaze. They look like flint now as she stares down at the Empress. She is wearing a deep brown _leine_ and a cloak made out of what looks like a monstrous bearskin, dwarfing her stout frame. Her hair is the color of burnished copper, threaded with strands of gray, falling in thick, unruly curls down to the middle of her back, barely kept in place by a gold-inlaid brooch in the shape of a bear that catches the torchlight when she turns her head to survey Lexa’s companions. “Trusted aides and diplomats?”

 

Clarke does not think she imagines it when the fair-skinned woman’s gaze lingers longer on her than on the others. There is something far too clever about her expression as she turns back to Lexa, gesturing vaguely at the group. “Introduce me.”

 

Indra leans over to Clarke, her voice hushed and her eyes never leaving the foreign queen. “I do not like the looks of this,” she whispers. “What are they saying?”

 

“She’s asking the Empress about us,” Clarke whispers back. “She wants to know who we are.”

 

As Lexa begins to explain, Boudica looks back to the group, and Clarke again gets the uncomfortable sensation that her attention is focused on Clarke. And that she’s heard every word.

 

To make matters worse, Anya seems to notice, too. “Us?” she asks under her breath, her tone pure poison. “Or you? Are you about to cause my cousin even more trouble, Amazon?”

 

Beside her, Raven stiffens, preparing to defend her queen against her new mistress, but Clarke makes a little motion behind her back with her hand, calling her warrior off without looking away from the scene unfolding in front of her.

 

“Indra au Fabia,” Lexa is saying, “A _legatus legionis_ and military advisor. Anya au Julii, a Senator of Rome and my chief political advisor. Clarke of the Skaikru Amazons, who serves me as a scribe. And the other is Raven, another Amazon warrior and personal attendant to _Senator au Julii_. We needed someone to cook for our party.”

 

Clarke says a silent prayer of thanks to the goddess Diana that Raven cannot hear the conversation at that moment. It’s clear that Lexa is downplaying their importance, both to her and to the Empire. She does not want Boudica knowing who exactly she holds.

 

“My scouts tell me that your _scribe_ was not with the rest of your party when they first saw her. Interesting, that you would keep one, as your understanding of my language seems more than adequate.”

 

Lexa shrugs. “It is not without its limits,” she says, and then, “The tension between our peoples – this fighting – is entirely the result of poor communication and outright lies. I did not want to make the situation worse through ignorance of your tongue.”

 

Tilting her head to the side for a moment, Boudica considers. “Aye, that’s a reasonable answer,” she concedes, turning away from Clarke. “It’s just that it’s not every day the Empress of Rome turns up in my camp with the Queen of the Amazons at her heels.”

 

Clarke’s blood freezes. She knows what Lexa has been trying to do, knows that even with what she has done, Lexa is still trying to protect her. Boudica knowing her identity means she can be used against her people, likely for the other Queen’s own political gain. _Like Lexa uses you_? The thought crosses her mind before she can stop herself. But it’s not true. It might have started out that way, but Lexa has done nothing but elevate and protect Clarke since she saved her life all those months ago. Since they really met each other.

 

She steps forward, causing some alarm from the others behind her, who have been watching the exchange with irritated inapprehension. “I am not Queen,” she answers simply. “That honor belongs to Diana of the Broadleaf Tribe, who wears the mask of the High Queen.”

 

Boudica tilts her head again, her sharp, long face too smooth for the battle-scarred muscles on her arms. There is a jagged, angry cut along her right bicep that she must have received recently, probably in the sack of Londinium, that Clarke thinks will add to the disparity. “This woman tells me truth, then?” she asks, ignoring the storm clouds that cross Lexa’s face at the lack of use of her title. “You are a scribe?”

 

Clarke considers the question. She’ll need to explain being separated from Lexa and the others, and the simplest explanation would be that she saw an opportunity to run away from her Roman masters and took it. But she wants Boudica to think well of Lexa – they have to trust each other if war is to be avoided – and so she cannot seem an unwilling participant in this impromptu council. “Yes. But I am also a woman doing all she can for her people,” she finally says. “I believe the Empress can help me on that front. I believe that you can, as well, if we put aside our differences.”

 

That surprises her. She takes a step down from the dais and leans in closer to Clarke, almost nose to nose, earning a hiss from Raven and a subtle clench of the jaw from Lexa, whose otherwise smooth expression is belied by the intensity of her stare. There is movement behind her, and Clarke has to assume that Indra or Anya – probably Anya – has reached out to restrain Raven from starting forward.

 

Boudica glances over Clarke’s shoulder, a wry smile forming on her thin lips. “That one thinks you’re a queen,” she counters, stepping back. “Albeit a poor one, if you turn to the very woman who conquered your people for aid in restoring them. I had heard your mother died in that battle. You expect me to believe you have forgiven such a crime?”

 

She’d known this would be a sticking point, but it still hurts to hear her mother mentioned like that. “That is why I’m choosing this path,” she answers, trying to keep her voice even. “So no more of my people die in a foolish war with Rome.” She pauses, forcing herself not to look at Lexa as she takes the risk. “The Empress has promised that my people can become an independent territory of Rome, ruled by our High Queen. Much the same as your Queendom, I am told.” She does not label the woman with any honorific, not sure of which would be proper in the situation. Technically, she and Clarke are equals. Exact equals, if Clarke’s people become part of Lexa’s Empire and Boudica’s people remain so. But she has just told the Iceni Queen that it is Diana, not she, who rules the Amazons, and so she must appear to the other woman to have much less power. She remembers to add, “That is, if such a proposal meets the approval of the High Queen.”

 

Boudica barks out an edged, bitter laugh. “I cannot imagine it would,” she says, her face transforming into cold fury as she turns her attention back to Lexa, who refuses to flinch at the attention. “Rome is a faithless ally and a rapacious, arrogant ruler. Anyone who gets in bed with such a snake as Rome is likely to be bitten by the morning.”

 

Now Clarke is glad that Anya and Indra can’t understand the conversation. Although you would never know it by the way they lurch forward at the words, spurred on by Boudica’s tone and Lexa’s responsive snarl. Clarke shoots a warning glance at Lexa to stop them, but her hand is already upraised, signaling her advisors to a halt. The Iceni soldiers around the borders of the tent have begun to crowd in, and tensions are high as they wait for Lexa’s response to their Queen’s sudden shift in demeanor.

 

“We have never broken faith with Brittania,” she grits out. “You – “  


“You lie!” Shouts Boudica, leaning into her space, and Clarke thinks she might see Lexa get spit on twice in one year at the rate this is going. “Your soldiers invaded my town, brutalized my people, whipped me and ravaged my daughters!” Her voice pitches higher at the end, almost breaking, but she seems to get herself under control. “Your men are animals, worse than dogs. They care not for soldiers or farmers, women or children. They take what they want through force and brutality, and you sanction it all!”

 

Lexa is shaking with the effort of controlling her anger. Clarke has never seen her look quite this livid, the color drained from her face, one hand clenched into a fist at her side while the other remains in the air, holding back Anya and Indra who, to their credit, seem perfectly willing to take on the entire Iceni camp on their own if it means answering in kind whatever slight has their Empress so upset. “I would never sanction what happened to you and your daughters,” she says in a low voice, surprisingly even. “You may think me a tyrant, but I protect my people, I don’t harm them. The men who attacked your people were not Romans.”

 

Snorting in derision, Boudica starts to pace. Lexa follows her movements with her eyes, but gives her the time to think it through. “They were wearing Roman armor, bearing Roman weapons. They claimed to be under orders from Pike himself.”

 

Lexa shakes her head. “Pike was a fool, but not so great a one as to defy my orders, which were to treat you and your people with respect and to aid you as needed. You have seen many years of prosperity and cooperation between our peoples. What reason would I have for disturbing that?” She pauses. “I have reason to believe those men were Visigoths in disguise. Sent by Nia, their Queen. I know she has reached out to you. If ever there was a snake – “

 

“I know better than to trust the Ice Queen of the Visigoths,” Boudica breaks in, interrupting Lexa again. “But I know better than to trust you, too, _Empress_. You say they were not your men, but what else have I to go on than your word? And how can I trust the word of a woman with no honor?”

 

Lexa purples, but this time it is Clarke who cannot hold back. “How can you speak of honor when you sent assassins into her palace under the guise of a truce? When you rejected the olive branch she offered by torturing her soldiers and then returning their heads in a box to her own throne room?”

 

Murmurs break out around the room at that, and Boudica stops moving abruptly. “What?” she asks, turning to look more fully at Clarke. “What are you raving about, lass? I did no such thing.”

 

Clarke just stares back at her, confused. Why would Boudica deny it now? Had she done it without her soldiers’ knowledge, and was trying to keep it from them? But surely some of them would have had to help in the torture, and surely those in this room would have either participated or heard of the deed. Was she simply trying to keep the moral high ground by lying about her own actions?

 

But Lexa is cursing under her breath, and both Queens turn to look at the Empress as she spreads her hands. “I knew it,” she growls, and then at the impatient looks they’re giving her, explains, “Nia. There was something too strange about the way those men carried themselves, wild, as if they had nothing to lose. She must have threatened their families.” She lifts her eyes to Boudica, accusation shining in them. “I remember when we met the first time. I remember the respect we had for each other. I did not think you would be the type to poison me in my own hall when you could challenge me on the field instead. But those men wore your clothing and shouted your name when they rushed me with a poisoned blade. I let them in my hall under the impression that they were your clan leaders, come to accept my offer of aid against the Visigoths and my condolences for what had befallen your people.”

 

Boudica’s expression has slowly been darkening as Lexa has been speaking, her eyebrows knitting closer together as a deep line forms on her forehead. “What reason would the Visigoth Queen have for pitting Rome and Brittania against each other?” she asks, wary.

 

Clarke is starting to understand. “You have a reputation as a warrior,” she answers for Lexa. “She needed a distraction to cover her march west, and you were the vassal with the best shot at bloodying the Empire enough to pull more than a token force away from Rome.”

 

Lexa is looking at her like she’s sprouted a second head, and Clarke finds herself blushing a little under the scrutiny. Just because she’s not a warrior doesn’t mean she can’t read a map. Lexa herself had shown her all these things days ago, the night they shared a bed. The pain floods in, sudden and keen, like the slip of a sharp blade, and she turns away quickly.

 

“She’s right,” Lexa is saying, and Clarke does not know if she’s imaging the strain beneath it. Perhaps Lexa is remembering, too. “Nia has always been well-informed. She would know that our relationship has suffered since Prasutagus’s passing. There are those in Rome, especially in the provinces, who would not see a woman rule such a powerful territory on her own.” She flashes a grin at this, cutting, more canine than anything. “I am, of course, not among them.”

 

Boudica is silent for a long moment. “Even if you’re right,” she muses, spreading her arms, “I don’t know what I can do about it. I’ve promised my people independence from Rome, and they’ve bloodied themselves in battle already. I don’t know that I could turn them back now, even if I wanted to.”

 

Clarke is surprised by the blunt admission. She purses her lips, thinking on the problem, but Lexa is already nodding along as if she’d expected this answer. “I couldn’t allow you to just go back home, not after slaughtering my people at Londinium.” She pauses, looking questioningly at Boudica, who has the grace to look embarrassed as she nods. That, it seems, they cannot blame on Nia.

 

“There’s only way to settle it then,” Boudica announces, looking to Lexa for her assent. A grim look passes between them. Clarke glances back and forth between their faces, having completely lost the conversation despite understanding every word. What does Lexa mean, she can’t let her go? They’ve been taken captive. Where is her leverage in all this?

 

“I owe you a blood debt, Empress of Rome,” Boudica says formally, her voice is pitched low. “I will give you this chance to take it from me.” Louder, she shouts, “The Romans claim that the attack on our tribe was not of their doing, but was deception by the Ice Queen herself! I do not know the circumstances, but this woman and her clan once treated us with respect, and I do not believe that they are responsible for such atrocities as we were forced to bear!” There are several upraised cries at this, some in support, but more in anger. Boudica holds up her arms for silence, and they hush quickly. “But since we cannot be sure, I say let the gods decide! We shall have a trial!”

 

That seems to excite them, and a cheer goes up around the room, quickly devolving into a chant of “Gods Trial, Gods Trial, Gods Trial!”

 

Boudica turns back to them, and Clarke asks her, “What is a gods trial?”

 

She is about to answer, but Lexa breaks in instead, expression grave. “Tomorrow, Boudica and I will battle before the gods, mine and hers. Whoever survives will be deemed to have the right of it.”

 

Her voice seems to have vanished with the rest of her wits. “Whoever survives…”

 

“The fight is to the death,” Boudica supplies helpfully. “Don’t worry, lass, I’ll see that the rest of you are treated decently, no matter what happens.” She shoots a meaningful look at Lexa, warning entering her voice, “Though I would suggest you leave quickly if I lose, Empress.” At Lexa’s nod, she waves over a couple of the guards. “See to it that our guests find accommodations.”

 

Lexa watches Boudica walk away, shoulders stiff. When she turns her head to Clarke, she is still the Empress, and the guardedness in her expression hurts more than anything Lexa could have said. Is she going to lose her before she even has the chance to make this right? Her mind doesn’t know how to process the fact that Lexa is going to have to fight to the death tomorrow.

 

She asks the question knowing what the answer will be. “What would have happened if you hadn’t agreed?”

 

Green eyes flicker up to hers, cloaked and unreadable. “To refuse the trial is to shame yourself before the gods, and is as good as an admission of guilt. Those who have nothing to hide do not refuse the judgment of the gods. Anya, Indra, Raven and I would have all been executed. She might have kept you alive, to bargain with your people. Though I do not know, since you made clear that you were not the Queen. You might have died as well.” She clears her throat and looks away. “You will all live this way.”

 

Clarke pales. “Traveller’s Right…”

 

“Requires only that she hear me,” Lexa answers, face and tone solemn. “Nothing further.”

 

Something breaks inside her, seeing Lexa like this. Seeing Lexa offer up her own life for Clarke’s, even after everything. Knowing that she is the reason that Lexa’s family and friends are at risk.   And yet she is filled with the horrible knowledge that even with this as the outcome, she does not regret it, cannot regret doing everything she can to save her people. The guilt feels as though it will crush the life from her. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, and means it.

 

Lexa blinks once, slowly, in acknowledgement. She swallows, looks as if she is going to say something, and then glances away. Her voice is soft when she finally condemns her, “I told you not to come, Clarke. You did what you felt you had to. You and I both know you would not choose differently, even now.”

 

The words are like a spike driven directly into her chest. She wants to refute it, wants to argue, but Lexa knows her with the kind of detail that can come only from seeing yourself reflected in another soul. She blinks hard, not wanting this to be how they end things, yet unable to find another solution. “I did not want this,” she whispers, and even though she means it, she can feel the inadequacy of her words.

 

Lexa is quiet, looking over Clarke’s shoulder at the rest of their group, who are watching with barely concealed impatience. They are still speaking in Gaelic, claiming this moment of privacy for each other as the Celts move away, and the others are clearly unsure of whether the negotiations have been completed. When she looks back down at Clarke, her eyes are filled with something deeper, some other meaning. “We don’t always get the things we want, Clarke.”

 

Clarke sucks in a breath, feeling like something is breaking in her chest, swelling and inflamed, cracking her ribs with the pressure. She opens her mouth to reply, to say something, anything, but Lexa is already walking away.

 

\----------------------------------

 

“You did what?” Anya’s voice rebounds off the walls of the tent they have all been given to share, her gestures wide and animated as she receives the news of the upcoming fight.

 

“I had no choice, Anya,” Lexa insists, drawing herself up the way she does when she’s under attack. “They weren’t going to just let us walk out of here, not with everything that’s happened between us, and at least this way I’ve given us a chance.”

 

Indra steps forward, between them. “I will fight in your place,” she announces, bowing her head. “There is no need for you to risk yourself. I will be your champion in this.”

 

Her liege looks at her with gratitude, clapping Indra on the shoulder. “I would be honored, my friend. But you cannot. I accepted the challenge, and I must fight the battle. The Iceni do not allow for champions.”

 

“This is ridiculous,” Anya growls, spinning away. “You pulled us out into the wilderness in the middle of the night for this – this _slave_ – and now my son stands a very real chance of becoming Emperor of Rome at _fourteen_ years old in the middle of a war without either his mother or his aunt to guide him!”

 

“Aden will have you.” Lexa’s answer is quick, determined. “If it comes to it, he will still have you. And you knew of my reasons.”

 

Anya scoffs at the reassurance. “Your reasons. You and I both know what your _reasons_ were. You’ve always had your women, Lexa, but you’ve never let one get this far under your skin before.”

 

Lexa’s eyes flash, and Clarke is so caught up in her own reaction that it takes her a moment to realize that the noise of shock has not come from her, but from beside her. From Raven. She reaches out to her, but Raven stalks off without a word, and Clarke’s attention is pulled back to Lexa as she advances on her cousin, lip curled and baring her teeth.

 

“You go too far, Anya.” Her voice is low, dangerous, but Anya fails to take the warning.

 

“Lexa, you are going to fight to the death tomorrow because your _lover_ decided that she could go off on her own into enemy territory, against your express orders, and you were so beside yourself that you didn’t even think before you rode off without even a cohort of support to rescue her!”

 

They meet eyes then over Anya’s shoulder, and Clarke hates the hope that she feels in that moment. But Lexa does not let the contact linger, and she does not back down from Anya as she returns her attention to her cousin. “Yes,” she answers, her voice cold. “Yes, I am. But you know full well that I could not have sent another after her. I brought you and Indra because I trust you implicitly, as I do myself. I brought Raven because you insisted. I would not have left this mission to any other, and I would not have risked either of you alone. If Clarke had been captured on her own, killed or taken by Nia or Boudica, the best possible outcome would have been that the Amazons would have been enraged by her death and become even more likely to unite with the Visigoths against us. At worst, they would have tortured her for information, and even though she doesn’t know anything specific about our numbers or our movements, she knows enough. I couldn’t risk it. And I couldn’t let the Senate know I had lost her, not with things as they are. I made a calculated decision, and I do not appreciate your insinuation that I cannot separate my feelings from my duty.”

 

Anya’s resolve crumbles, and she sags visibly, defeated. She looks tired, worn by the day’s events and the infighting that followed. “Lexa… You’ve heard of her reputation. This will not be an easy fight. If you cannot beat her…”

 

Clarke swallows down the fear threatening to spill over at the words. Clarke has seen Lexa fight, has seen her skill, but Anya? Anya grew up alongside her, learned from the same teacher, trained with her from youth. Probably sparred with her for years. Anya would have a better idea of Lexa’s skill than possibly anyone else alive. If Anya is doubting Lexa’s chances…

 

“I can beat her.” It’s certain, solid. No chinks in that armor. “I can beat her, and I will. It’s what Rome needs. It’s what our son needs. I will not fail.”

 

Anya seems to accept this, or at least she does not question Lexa further. She steps in, pulls her cousin to her, and kisses her on the temple, holding the embrace for a moment before she steps away. She seems embarrassed by the lapse, turning away quickly, and for her part, Lexa appears shaken, unable to move, slack mouth and wide eyes tracing her cousin’s retreat across the room.

 

It feels like she’s intruding on a personal moment, something she no longer has a right to. She feels like an outsider in Lexa’s life. Clarke backpedals as Lexa seems to find her voice, moving to speak with Indra about contingency plans should the worst happen. She wants to step outside the tent, to think on her own, but Boudica has stationed guards out front, with the stated purpose of protecting them against any preemptive attacks from her own people. The Gods’ Trial might be a sacred ritual, but animus against the Romans runs deep, as does their protectiveness over their Queen. They will all be confined to the tent until the trial.

 

She turns instead to her bedroll, deciding to try to get a few hours of sleep before the morning. They’ve been given standard army bedrolls to sleep on, thin strips of cloth sewn around sheep’s wool and straw. It’s a far cry from her high, plush bed in the palace. Still, she is grateful to have anything between her and the hard ground, though she could likely sleep in a tree tonight for as tired as she is.

 

She’s just nodding off when the bed dips beside her. Half-asleep, her mind goes automatically to Lexa, her gentle hands and her feather-light kisses, touch delicate as if afraid Clarke would turn out not to be real after all. But the presence at her back is not reverent, is not peaceful and sleepy and content with their closeness.

 

She expects anger, but when Raven speaks, it is quiet, measured. “I should have known. I saw you with her, how you healed her. At first I thought you were using her, trying to get past her defenses to help our people escape, but that’s not what it is, is it? You care about her.”

 

Clarke doesn’t turn around. She doesn’t want to look Raven in the face for this conversation. She isn’t sure if the truth will anger or assure her sister, but she is sure that the truth of her failed relationship with Lexa will show in her face if she opens up about it, and she cannot take the chance that Raven will see the full extent of her pain right now. She can’t even allow herself to feel it, not until they’re out of this mess.

 

“It doesn’t matter,” she says honestly. “I left because I needed to help our people. I put her in a terrible position so that I could reach them and stop Diana before she does more harm to our people than I can repair.”

 

Raven is silent for so long that Clarke thinks she’s fallen asleep. When she finally does speak, it startles Clarke so much that she almost slips out of the bedroll. “I know.” It’s a whisper, no more than an exhaled breath. “You put our people first. You always do.” There’s another long pause. “Clarke, you have your mother’s rite of caste. You are not a conventional candidate, but… When you make your bid for High Queen, I will back you. You may be sleeping with the Empress of Rome, but I know where your true loyalties lie.”

 

Clarke lets out the breath she was holding. She doesn’t even bother to contradict Raven, to tell her that she and Lexa are over and even before that, they hadn’t been lovers. Her relief is so strong that she struggles with the words, long enough that Raven’s breath evens out behind her, long enough that an answer is no longer necessary.

 

\--------------------------------------------

 

She doesn’t sleep. She tries, but between the upcoming battle and the conversation she’d had with Raven, Clarke has too much on her mind to think about resting. She’s up before the sun starts to peek through the tent flaps, cajoling the guards into letting her sit in a small copse of trees just outside their campsite. It’s situated so that it’s partially hidden from their view, but any entrance or exit from the copse would be seen. It’s barely a concession, but she’s grateful for the reprieve anyway.

 

She finds a tall oak tree and lays her back against it, letting herself sink into the comfort of familiarity as she replays the same thought over and over in her head. Today, Lexa will fight. Today, Lexa will fight, and it’s possible that she will die.

 

She isn’t ready for that. She knows that whatever is between them is gone, that Lexa cannot forgive her for what she’s done, but she also knows that she can not stand idly by and watch the woman she cares about be killed in a battle for Clarke’s sake. She is trying to think of a way to avoid the rules of the fight, some way that she can interfere and they can all still live, when someone clears their throat beside her.

 

Lexa has entered the small clearing without a sound, her warrior’s instincts keeping her footfalls quiet. Apparently Clarke has gone some time without noticing, enough that Lexa felt the need to announce her presence to the distracted Amazon.

 

“I have to leave soon,” she says by way of introduction, arms folded behind her back as Clarke shifts on the ground, then unfolds her legs and stands. Lexa’s expression is inscrutable, is as empty as the sky above them, but she wouldn’t be here if she didn’t have more to say.

 

Clarke steps into her space and waits. Something shifts in Lexa’s gaze, some yearning fighting its way past her guard, and Clarke reels at the intensity of it. “I wanted to say goodbye.”

 

It’s too much. It’s too much and it’s too soon and she can’t lose her, not now. Not like this. She wants to reach out, wants to grab Lexa and pull her to her, but she doesn’t know where she stands and she doesn’t want to do anything that might distract Lexa before the fight. So she only reaches out her arm, reaches for Lexa’s wrist in the Amazonian gesture of greeting and farewell, letting their warm skin collide and hoping that Lexa will understand what she’s trying to say.

 

Lexa’s fingertips brush over bare skin as she returns the embrace, little bumps rising on her flesh., Lexa nods at her, then inhales sharply and pulls her in. She rests her forehead against Clarke’s, and Clarke is mortified to feel tears begin to well behind her eyes. “Do not leave me,” she commands, hoarse, holding them back.

 

Lexa’s breathing picks up, nostrils flaring and jaw working back and forth as she wars with herself. Her eyes slide down to Clarke’s mouth and Clarke thinks she will kiss her, but she swallows hard and draws back with a shaky breath. “May we meet again.”

 

Disappointed, Clarke steps back too, releasing Lexa’s arm. “Good luck, Lexa,” she offers, fear starting to creep back into her chest cavity, slowly blooming from the center out “May we meet again.”

 

She doesn’t leave immediately. Clarke doesn’t know how long they stand there, close but not touching, both kept immobile by the weight of the words left unspoken between them. They stand until the air around them starts to warm and the sun starts to rise over the horizon, until there is a crunch of leaves and an Iceni guard emerges, telling them it’s time.

 

Lexa moves first, breaking as if from a spell, and Clarke has no choice but to follow her out of the grove.

 

\----------------------------------------

 

The Celts separate them before they get back to their shared tent, leading Lexa off in a different direction to prepare. She’d been up half the night writing letters to Rome and drilling contingency instructions into Indra and Anya, and between that and the confusion of the interaction she’d just had with Clarke, she is so full of thoughts and questions that she barely pays attention to where she’s heading.

 

So it’s a surprise when she’s led to an unfamiliar stretch of woods, empty save for a lone figure in a bearskin cloak. The guard’s departure is much more silent than his arrival was, and silence falls on the small clearing as Lexa steps up to Boudica, folding her arms behind her back. “Luring your opponent to a secluded location just hours before a fight to the death might be seen by some as if you intend me harm,” she notes, turning her head towards the Iceni Queen.

 

A hint of a smile plays at the corners of Boudica’s lips as she turns towards Lexa. “If my intention was to kill you, Empress of Rome, I would have only to wait a few hours.”

 

Lexa returns the smirk, though the humor ebbs quickly. In a short time, she may be dead, and Rome left to carry on without her. Her Empire on the brink of war, an untested boy at the helm, her people likely forced to fend for themselves as Aden consolidates forces in Rome to protect his rule against the challenges that will surely come. Aden, alone with the weight of the world on his shoulders, too young for the decisions he will be forced to make. She hopes that having Anya at his side will help him fare better than she had. He will eventually have to find his own advisors, but hers will give him a stable, strong start if he can survive the war that is to come. She has to believe that Aden will be all right.

 

And Clarke… Clarke will go back to her people, will lead them as she’s always wanted. Lexa has no doubt that she will find a way to do it. She hopes that Clarke will not lead them against her people – she does not think she will. Lexa is not afraid of dying, is not afraid of the fight, but thinking of Clarke brings another fear to the surface – that she will not see Clarke again. Even if there is no longer anything between them for now, she had held on to the hope that maybe, someday…

 

But thinking that way will not make her challenge today any easier, so she focuses on the clearing, noticing a tall painted wooden carving that she had not seen before. The woman it depicts is aged, though not so much as to be ancient, her skin pale and her cloak a deep crimson, speckled with stars. She is holding something in her hands, a wheel painted silver. At her feet, a crescent moon curves around her, as if she is standing upon it in the sky.

 

She looks at Boudica, who is so close that she’s practically learning over Lexa’s shoulder, making a study of the same statue. “Arianrhod?” Lexa questions, earning an arched eyebrow from the other woman. “Not Arawn?”

 

“I do not need the god of war at my side to thrash you, Empress,” the Celt snorts, and Lexa rolls her eyes. She’s remembering why she liked this woman so much all those years ago. She reminds her of Anya.

 

“Just the god of death?” she retorts, shifting her weight back as Boudica circles around to face her.

 

“Ach, now I see why you needed your little scribe,” the other woman answers to Lexa’s confusion. “Maybe she could fill you in on our mythology.” Lexa frowns, searching her brain. Wasn’t that what the wheel was?

 

“I thought the wheel there… doesn’t that carry the souls of your dead?”

 

Boudica nods, moving closer to the statue and pointing down at the figure in question. “The Silver Wheel. You’re partly right; it carries the souls of warriors killed in battle to Emania, the Moonland. If I fall today, it is she who will be waiting for me.” Her voice turns cold, hard, as she continues the story. “But she’s also the goddess of reincarnation… and of retribution.” She’s been walking away from Lexa, pacing as she talks, but she turns back now with such a look of fierceness that Lexa almost takes a step back herself. She stays put.

 

“I was under the impression that you believed me that Rome had nothing to do with what happened to your village,” she starts, wondering how they got back to this point. They have been speaking almost as friends, both dancing around the fact that one of them will kill the other today. But now it seems as if they have reverted to the beginning.

 

“I do believe you,” Boudica answers simply, increasing Lexa’s bewilderment. “It seems we have a common enemy, and a common need for revenge, Empress.”

 

“Nia.” It makes sense now, why Boudica would be out here, at a shrine to the goddess of retribution and not war. War will come later, to whoever survives the fight today. It is not something to hope for. Vengeance, however…

 

“Aye,” the Celt acknowledges, turning her flint-green eyes on Lexa, the lines around her mouth growing deeper as she tightens it. “I thought you might want to pray with me, Empress of Rome. Perhaps if the goddess hears us both, the one who lives can carry out the reckoning for us both.”

 

Lexa’s smile is sharp enough to cut through the toughest armor. “Then let’s pray.”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

They don’t see Lexa again before the fight. Clarke endures the tense silence and angry glares from Anya for the rest of the morning, so she’s almost relieved when the flame-haired man who’d accosted them the first day comes to fetch them around midday.

 

They’re led outside, where three more soldiers immediately flank them, keeping the numbers even. The camp is strangely empty as they make their way to the area marked out for the trial, everyone clearly already at the staging ground. Campfires are unlit and posts abandoned as they walk through the camp, and if it weren’t for Lexa, this would be the perfect time to stage an escape. As it is, they allow themselves to be herded through the large crowd of waiting Celts, past swarthy men and stocky women who grumble loudly as their escort roughly shoves its way through. It takes time, but they end up right at the outside edge of the makeshift arena, close enough to where the fighting is to take place to be in the danger zone if any blades go flying past.

 

The ring is simple, hastily constructed from simple wooden stakes hammered into the ground with long strands of hemp rope stretched between them. It will neither hold the combatants in nor the spectators out, but it seems that the Celts operate on the honor system in that regard. The ground has been trampled down here, and it is flat enough, but it’s still grass and there are likely still rocks and uneven parts not visible to the naked eye. Both women will have to watch their footing.

 

Clarke glances around the ring at the assembled Celts, their faces eager and terribly certain. She is already breathing hard, and she finds herself wishing that they had waited even longer to fetch her and the others, just so they didn’t have to endure this wait. She looks over her shoulder at Anya, who is wearing an expression of trepidation that Clarke knows must mirror the one on her own face. She catches her eye and they trade anxious glances. Perhaps if they all get through this, they will be able to find some common ground after all, at least in regards to Lexa.

 

Indra moves up next to them, eyeing their escort. “The Empress has made it my duty to get you all out of here, should things not go as planned,” she says, keeping her voice low. “If she falls, follow me.”

 

Raven opens her mouth to say something, but Anya silences her with a glare. “She will not fall.”

 

Clarke hopes she’s right. A shout goes up, a single raised voice, and then others join in, heralding the arrival of the warriors. There is a general clamor at the entrance of the ring, directly across from where Clarke and the Romans are standing. And then she emerges, and the crowd falls into a hushed silence.

 

It’s Lexa who has stunned them into quiet. Clarke couldn’t speak herself if her life depended on it, cannot breathe, cannot think past taking in every detail of the war goddess in front of her. Lexa is Athena herself, hair braided back into a warrior’s crown, less intricate than her Imperial hairstyle but no less beautiful. She’s resplendent in a dark boiled leather chestplate and bracers, apparently having decided to forego heavier armor in place of speed. Her twin blades are strapped to her back such that Clarke can only see the hilts, Imperial gold. They have painted her face in the Iceni fashion, though instead of the typical blue woad, the warpaint they have provided is an inky black. It is not done in the common Iceni whorls either, but concentrated around her eyes, a dark band running from above her eyebrows to the tops of her cheekbones, from one side of her hairline to the other. Jagged marks drip down from the band like the teeth of some great beast, three on each side. It makes the green of her eyes stand out bright from the darkness around them, and Clarke can see even from here that’s she’s searching for something. The effect of it all makes her seem almost otherworldly, as if she is some foreign creature brought near to rain war and death upon them all. She is a terrible, perilous vision.

 

She finds their small group with her eyes and her aspect shifts from intimidating to something lighter as she heads their way. Behind her, the crowd is slowly starting to speak again, murmurs swelling into conversation and then outright cacophony as Boudica makes her own entrance. There is so much cheering and noise that the others look towards her, every eye in the Arena on the Iceni Queen so confident and resplendent with the love of her people.

 

But Clarke has eyes only for Lexa, who does not look back but keeps walking towards them. When she arrives, she steps close enough to be heard above the din, close enough to touch. Though Clarke’s fingers itch to bridge the distance between them, she does not move.

 

Lexa speaks to her first. “I’m glad you came,” she says simply, and though she could be addressing the entire party, her gaze never leaves Clarke’s.

 

“Me too,” the Amazon responds, throat tightening with fear and longing.

 

Lexa breaks their connection, looks over her shoulder at Indra. “You are ready?”

 

“Yes Empress,” Indra answers, her voice rough. It sounds as if she is having difficulty speaking, as if maybe she too, is holding back some emotion that they do not want Lexa to see. “I have made the preparations we discussed.”

 

Lexa nods, once. “Then I’ll get this over with. Stay safe, Romans. Amazons. It has been my honor to know all of you.” She looks over each of their faces one last time, then turns on her heel and strides back to the center of the ring, the mask of the Empress firmly in place.

 

Boudica is fetching her longsword from a warrior behind her, who steps back as soon as he has tendered the blade. It’s huge. When Lexa draws her own blades, they seem almost pitiful in comparison – short, curved blades with a wicked hooked edge at the end. Boudica will have the reach in this fight, while Lexa’s shorter weapons will mean that she has to be quick, to step in and take opportunities to strike where they arise. Still, they look deadly enough, and Lexa will be able to be much more agile this way. She wonders where Lexa picked up a two-bladed style – it’s very unusual for Romans.

 

As if reading her thoughts, Raven leans over and whispers, “What are those swords? I’ve never seen anything like them before.”

 

Clarke shrugs, not knowing the answer, but Indra speaks up for her. “They’re _siccae,_ ” she tells the two Amazons. “Gladiator-style blades, Illyrian in origin. It’s not what the Empress would wear to war, but they make for good melee weapons. It looks like Boudica’s sword will break hers in half, but that’s deceptive. Those blades are thick, and the compactness will make them strong. The way they curve means she won’t have to swing side to side to make the greatest impact, but will get a good cut no matter how her arm is angled. She can also use them to hook Boudica’s blade and bear it to the side while she strikes at her core with the other. It’s a good choice of weapon.”

 

Raven looks impressed despite herself. “How does she know how to use those? I thought Roman soldiers only learned the gladius and the spear.”

 

“The Empress has travelled the world with the Legion,” Anya explains, never taking her eyes off of her cousin, who is shaking her shoulders to limber up her arms, the warriors now starting to circle each other. “She joined the army very young, spurred on by my father. I was the heir to his household, so it was determined that Lexa would be a soldier instead, as he was a great general. When she was made heir at fifteen, she was put in charge of her own cohort, and they quickly became instrumental enough to their own legion that they were transferred to the First Legion, which goes where the fighting is hardest. She learned much of the world travelling with that legion, and much of different fighting styles and weapons. Eventually, Emperor Octavian called her back to Rome, but not before she had come _Primus_ and travelled to the furthest reaches of the Empire in her campaigns.”

 

Clarke can’t even imagine starting that young. Lexa had joined the army before she was even fifteen? Amazons begin their battle training very young, but they are not actually expected to fight until they have reached womanhood. The compassionate, gentle woman who has been slowly breaking down her walls has spent an entire lifetime at war. Seeing her like this, prowling around her opponent, every line of her body radiating deadly intent, it is hard to tell which of the Lexas she knows is the real. It seems impossible to reconcile them.

 

She is jarred from her thoughts by the clang of metal, and as one, the group whips their heads around to the fight, all thoughts of conversation forgotten. Boudica has grown tired of the waiting and stepped in, the reach of her sword allowing her to stay back while Lexa dances to the side, ducking the blow. She moves so quickly that Clarke can barely follow her as she darts in, sword skimming Boudica’s spaulder as the Celt steps back from the thrust. She spins, and the warriors part, beginning their circling again.

 

Clarke’s heart is thundering in her chest, so strong that she’s sure the people around her could hear it if it weren’t for the noise of the crowd. Boudica is the first to attack again, Lexa conserving her energy. The Celt has opted for heavier armor, and it’s clear that Lexa is hoping that by staying on the defensive, making Boudica work for every attack, that she will make the other woman tire herself out first. It’s a type of guerrilla-gladiator strategy that surprises Clarke, as Romans are usually much more direct in their fighting style. Lexa must have learned it on campaign.

 

If she’d expected the armor or the weight of her sword to make Boudica slow, however, she was bound to be disappointed. Boudica strikes with the speed of a viper, raining down blows on Lexa as she retreats. Each blow seems stronger, more savage, and Clarke clenches her fists so hard that blood wells from the places that her fingernails dig in. Lexa looks so small, retreating under that onslaught and the possibility that she might lose her is becoming realer by the second. She hears Anya muttering under her breath next to her, egging Lexa on.

 

“Come on, come on…” And then a particularly savage blow knocks Lexa off balance, almost to her knees, and all hope that she was feigning the desperation of her retreat flees as Clarke watches the woman she cares about fight for her life. Lexa deflects the blow, but barely, the tip of the blade skittering across her cheek as she pivots to the side and regains her footing. She doesn’t step back so much as she staggers, but when they turn again, Boudica is bleeding from a wound in her side that Clarke did not see Lexa give her.

 

The fight is more brutal after that, more intentional, first blood drawn and both women sensing the reality that they are too evenly matched for either to hold back. Lexa’s speed is unreal, her blades spinning through the air so fast that they are one metallic blur moving around the combatants. It seems impossible that Boudica can evade her, but the other woman is smart, using her longer reach to stay outside the worst of the thrusts.

 

The fear is like a heavy stone in her stomach, weighing her down so that she cannot move, frozen in place, unable to do anything but clench her fists and pray that Lexa makes it out of this battle alive.

 

And then it’s over, so quickly that Clarke isn’t even sure she would have seen if not for Anya’s shout of joy and Indra’s approving grunt as Lexa manages to catch Boudica’s blade with the hooked edge of one of her own, sending it spiraling away into the dust. Shock crosses the Iceni Queen’s face at the loss, replaced by a grim resignation as Lexa spins one final time to face her.

 

Boudica drops back into a defensive stance, raising her fists to make it clear that she’s not defeated yet. But Lexa is calm as she stalks towards her opponent, and it’s horribly apparent that Clarke is about to witness the death of a legend.

 

A legend who had led her entire people to war against a vast empire, with no hope of victory, but who had bloodied them against all odds. Looking at her screaming warriors, desperate now that they could see the tide of the battle turned against their Queen, the real fear for her life in their faces. That type of loyalty was difficult to inspire.

 

This fight is an abomination. It is the result of a vicious woman’s vendetta, a conniving, cruel way to pit two former allies against each other. It will do nothing, not for Rome, not for Lexa or her people. It will benefit only Nia and her agenda.

 

Suddenly, the way forward is clear to Clarke. She raises her voice, screaming as loudly as she can. “Empress! Empress, don’t kill her!”

 

Raven is suddenly beside her, hand on her arm, looking at her as if she’s lost her mind, and she can hear Anya loudly demanding whether that’s exactly what has happened, but her focus is only on Lexa. “Stop!” she yells, but Lexa is still advancing, batting Boudica’s arm to the side and raising her sword.

 

The crowd hushes, just a little, as all doubt of who the victor will be is erased, and Clarke takes one last frantic chance. “Lexa, STOP!” She screams as the blade swings down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arawn - the Gaelic god of war, or one of them  
> Arianrhod - the Gaelic goddess of retribution, reincarnation, and karma (although I'm pretty sure they didn't call it karma back then)  
> Siccae - curved short swords or long daggers, used by the Illyrians, who populated an area that is now the western part of the Balkan peninsula.


	19. XIX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, this has been a long break! Sorry for that - but it's back now! Let me know what you guys think!

Time slows.  The crowds are pressing in around the edges of the ring, jostling and shoving each other, each man or woman trying to get a better view of what’s happening inside.  Clarke can see them at the edges of her vision, closing in. She’s vaguely aware of Raven still pulling on her, urging her back away from the edge as Indra barks orders behind them, trying to herd them all together in case they need to make a break for it.  It’s loud, louder than it was when the fight was still happening, forcing them to shout over each other as Clarke struggles to get herself free.

She lurches forward, one step, then two, and she’s away from Raven and stumbling into the ring before she can quite process what she’s doing.  The crowd quiets almost immediately, their attention caught. Because Lexa – Lexa, who could not possibly have heard her, could not possibly have had enough control to stop that swing in time – Lexa is still standing in the center of the ring, the edge of her blade pressed to Boudica’s gasping throat.  She is silent, but her shoulders heave from the rigor of the fight, and though she is not looking at Clarke, the slight backwards tilt of her head indicates that she’s heard her, is aware of her presence in the ring.

Boudica’s wild eyes find her, the whites showing large, and trap her gaze over Lexa’s outstretched arm.  No one speaks. A thin line of blood seeps down the Iceni Queen’s neck where the sword touches it, but Lexa does not move her arm away.

Clarke racks her brain for something to say.  Now that she’s stopped the fight, she needs a plan, she needs to tell them what she’s been thinking, but the words catch and claw at her, not wanting to come out.

After a moment that seems like an eternity, Lexa loses her patience.  “Get back, Clarke,” she snarls, and shifts her feet to prepare for the final blow.  Boudica lunges to the side, so quick Clarke can barely follow, to where her sword has fallen, but Lexa seems ready for the move and trips her up short, sweeping her legs out from under her and climbing over the other woman where she lays fallen in the dirt.  She flips the grip on her blade to make a more powerful drive, and Clarke knows she’s out of time.

“The trial is over!” she screams, trying to pull her voice deeper into the commanding roar she’s heard Lexa use in her throne room.  The gathered Iceni, who had been working themselves into another frenzy when the fighting resumed, quiet again. “The gods have made their judgment!”

The spectators quiet again, paying attention now, and so she turns to them, stepping away from the combatants and hoping she’s not too late.  She pitches her voice even louder, though she pulls some of the urgency from it, instead spreading her arms and imploring as she’s seen her mother do when trying to convince the rest of the tribe.  “The Empress of Rome has won, and in so doing has shown herself to be true and right in the eyes of your gods,” she continues, over some grumbles of dissatisfaction. “Your Queen has been defeated and the matter decided!  Must she actually lose her life for ritual, when all can see the judgment of the gods?”

Noise swells around them, growing as the Iceni start to debate the question posed.  Clarke risks a glance over her shoulder at the two warrior leaders. They are on their feet now, staring warily at each other, Lexa standing between Boudica and her sword with her own blades still bared, one down at her side and another laid flat against her shoulder in a not-so-subtle warning.

As if feeling Clarke’s eyes on her, Boudica looks away from Lexa, just for a split second, and nods her head once.  It’s all the encouragement Clarke needs. She looks back to Lexa, trying to get a read on whether the other woman will interfere.

But Lexa’s face is blank, no sign of the recent battle or the current tension showing there.  There are no lines on her brow, no tension in her shoulders, no fear or anger or relief in her eyes as she watches Clarke.  She could be anywhere, in any room, having some banal conversation instead of standing in a ring of enemy soldiers, across from a warrior she’d been seconds away from killing in mortal combat.

It’s disconcerting.  But Clarke doesn’t have time to reflect because the shouts are starting again, growing, and it’s clear they’re not going to side with her.  She glances over at Raven, watches Indra and Anya start to push towards her, hands on their sword hilts, and thinks about how they will all die here, fighting the wrong enemy.  But there’s shouting, a clear note of command, a tone so familiar she turns towards it by instinct.

It’s not Lexa.  It’s Boudica, her red-gold hair slicked to her head with sweat, standing tall with Lexa behind her, not looking back at the woman who, moments earlier, held a sword to her throat.  There is no fear in her now as she faces her warriors, bloodied and proud. “This is a sacred ritual!” She roars, the sound ringing through the gathered Celts like a dampening bell.

They quiet quickly, listening to their Queen.  “Will you spurn the judgment of the gods because I stand on this earth instead of lying underneath it?  The lass speaks true! It is not the Romans we have to blame for our suffering, but Queen Nia of the Visigoths!  Is it they who have crept like disease into our lands, turning us against a people who were once our allies! We may have our differences with Rome, but it is Queen Nia who owes us our blood debt!  Will you let your ritual stand between the Iceni and our vengeance?”

The people around them seem to have calmed somewhat, stilling for at least long enough to listen to their leader.  There’s more murmuring, a quiet susurration, but it’s not the anxious beehive sound of a group poised to attack. She risks a glance over at Raven and the Romans again - they have stopped their forward progression, two large Iceni men blocking their way into the ring.  Indra looks as though she might still try to fight her way out, the tension in her squared shoulders a clear indication of rebellious intent, but Anya has her by the elbow and is shouting into her ear. Clarke catches the Senator’s eye, and her quick shake of the head, almost a flinch, tells her all she needs to know.  They are ready, but things are under control for now. Clarke should not try to interfere.

“Well?”  Boudica’s volume has risen with the urgency of her demand.  “Will you? Are you Celts, or are you babes, to hide from the drums of war behind the skirts of the gods?  Will you not avenge those we lost fighting the Romans in a senseless battle? Will you not avenge my daughters?  Will you not avenge your Queen?”

It’s a roar now, the gathered Celts practically screaming back at her, their pride wounded by her insinuation that fear rather than piety kept them from the fight.  They press in, rattling weapon against shields and stomping their feet, the noise swelling around them until it seems that they may be crushed after all. Then a lone warrior steps out in front, somewhat small compared to the rest, and lets out a sharp, breaking cry.  Without hesitation, Boudica echoes it back to him, and then the men behind her slowly take up the call, the war cry reverberating throughout their ranks.

It’s over.  Clarke moves towards Lexa almost without thinking, her concern for the other woman at the forefront of her mind now that the immediate danger has passed.  As the Celts begin to move off, still screaming blood and battle into the air, Boudica turns towards them, the slightest of smiles forming on her lips. “Looks like we both win, Empress,” she tells Lexa.  “Thanks to your lass here, we can end this enmity with no further blood shed.”

Lexa hasn’t moved from where she stands behind Boudica, sword on her shoulder.  She takes it down now and wipes it against the leather of her armor, cleaning it, at least superficially, of the Iceni Queen’s blood.  “That may be so,” she answers, tone even. “But you still owe me a blood debt. And I intend to see it repaid.”

 

\--------------------------------------------------  


It takes ages for them to get back to their tent.  They’d left the arena as soon as the Celts had calmed down enough to let them pass with a reasonable assurance of safety, but they’d been quickly whisked to Boudica’s command tent to begin discussing a joint strategy of defense against the Visigoth army.  If Clarke had expected to be part of the discussion, she’s sorely mistaken. She and Raven are shuffled off to the side so fast that the hide of the tent flap brushes her back as it’s closed.

Lexa and Boudica take over the center of the room, the Iceni queen calling quickly for a piece of kohl and and some parchment, the two leaders taking out some time to sketch out what Clarke assumes is a rough display of their territory and the positions of their armies.  She’s too far away to see, or even to hear much above low murmurs, but there’s enough pointing and head shaking that she’s fairly sure of what’s going on.

Eventually, Anya looks up from her position at Lexa’s side and beckons Raven over.  With an apologetic shrug, the warrior goes, leaving Clarke to stew on her own. Lexa doesn’t glance up at her once, has not seemed to notice even her presence, let alone the fact that one burly guard or another steps into her path every time she tries to approach the rest of the gathered group.  She wonders on whose orders she’s getting held back.

It ends, eventually, after what seems like hours of straining to hear as the boisterous Celts and the much smaller voices of the Romans speak over each other.  Allies though they are, they’re clearly not close to meeting minds on battle tactics. Lexa seems calm as the impromptu summit closes, saying her goodbyes to Boudica and sweeping out of the tent with Indra and Anya on her heels, leaving Clarke to hurry along behind at a gesture from Raven, who’s bringing up the rear.  They walk across the camp in silence, unguarded now, apparently no longer prisoners in this camp.

They’re met in front of their tent by Maedoc, the lanky leader of the group that brought them in.  “The Queen has said yer to have yer own tents now,” he says, his Gaelic almost too quick for Clarke to follow.  He lifts his eyebrows at her when the group’s silence stretches on too long, and she hurries to translate for the rest.  She glances sideways at Lexa, but the Empress is looking straight ahead, clearly not in any rush to assist. She thanks Maedoc, who seems happy to leave them to their own devices, and turns back towards the others.  

But Lexa is quietly dismissing Indra and Anya, the weight of the day seeming to settle over her now that the danger has passed and her duties have been seen to.  She glances over at Clarke - the first time she’s done so since that moment in the arena what feels like days ago - but her eyes hold the same empty look that they did then.  It carves something into Clarke, something echoing and cavernous. When Raven takes her arm to lead them to their tents, she doesn’t resist. She glances back over her shoulder as they walk away, but Lexa is already gone.

 

\------------------------------------------------------

 

The tent is spacious, only a little smaller than the one they were given to all share.  It’s sparsely furnished - there’s only a long sleeping roll and a low table set with an oil lamp and some dried fruit and cheese, the same type of travel fare she’s been eating for days.  But there’s a small jug of ale set out next to it, and Clarke is hungry enough that the meal seems more a feast than the meager provision it is. Raven hasn’t accompanied her inside, having excused herself to her own tent with a promise to meet Clarke at first light to address their departure the following day.  Clarke had been surprised at them leaving so early, but apparently Indra would be riding out as soon it was light enough to herald their return, and Lexa was anxious not to be long behind.

Which she would have known had she been allowed to stand in the war conference with the rest of them.  Had Lexa’s trust in her dropped so low, lower even than _Raven’s_ , who Lexa had thought capable of plotting to assassinate her only a few days ago?  Was her transgression truly so bad?  

But she knows the answer.  Knows what she’d almost done to Lexa - what she _had_ done to her, and worse, what her actions had almost cost Rome.  Lexa might be able to forgive her for forcing the fight between her and Boudica, but the Empress would be hard pressed to forgive the disaster just barely avoided by her Empire.  And she still can’t get a read on Lexa’s reaction to her interruption in the arena.

The food doesn’t look as appetizing as it did a moment ago.  Clarke sits down with a heavy sigh on the packed dirt and breaks off a small hunk of cheese, forcing it down with a swig of ale.  The cheese is a lump all the length of her throat, but the ale washes down better, and she takes another few gulps before giving up on eating altogether.  Bringing the jug with her, she goes to sit down on the sleeping roll, the same wool and straw combination as the one from the night before, and she fights to get comfortable as she lays back on it without bothering to remove her clothing.  

Her thoughts turn back to Lexa and don’t let go, clamping down on her mind with the ferocity of one of the camp’s wolfhounds.  Lexa doesn’t trust her. Not with her troop movements, not with her plans. Not with her people or her Empire or, Clarke fears, with her heart.  Not anymore.

Well she isn’t going to just lie here and wait for whatever comes.  Sweeping her still-booted feet off the bed, Clarke stands, whisking the oil lamp off the table and downing the rest of her mead for good measure.  There’s a water jug on the table as well, previously ignored, and she spares a thought to whether she should drink some of that as well before pushing out from the tent flap, lamp raised.

There are men outside, though not many, and none of them close enough to the Roman and Amazon tents to be technically considered guards.  They look up as she steps out, watching, and Clarke wonders briefly if this was wise. They will almost certainly report her comings and goings to Boudica, and who knows who else.  But they do not try to stop her, and she decides that this is too important to bother with doubt as she crosses the short distance to Lexa’s tent and throws the flap open.

She had not thought to check if Lexa was clothed or sleeping or otherwise engaged when she’d done it, so she’s gratified when she sees the Empress sitting cross-legged on the ground before her, running an oiled cloth over what looks to be a recently sharpened blade.  It’s one of her curved _sica_ , one of the blades she wielded earlier that day.  Her soil-rich hair falls down forward over her shoulder as she works, warrior’s braids still in place, and the kohl they’d lined her face with is still there, uncleared.  It makes the ferocity in her pale green eyes stand out ever more when she raises them to Clarke.

The air leaves her lungs.  She scrabbles to find it, to regain some of the sense of urgency she’d felt in coming over here, but Lexa’s gaze has her trapped as surely as a rabbit in a snare.  She doesn’t break free until the Empress looks away, standing and placing the sword reverently on the table alongside the oil cloth, then brushing her hands off on her breeches.  She’s managed to get out of the armor, at least; it’s resting on the back of a chair - she got a chair? - next to an untouched meal similar to the one that had been waiting for Clarke. 

Clarke steals a breath to speak as Lexa turns to her, but the other woman beats her to it.

“Why are you here, Clarke?”

 

\-------------------------------------

 

They’re the first words the Lexa has spoken to Clarke since before she stepped into the arena, and they come out harsher than she intended.  But it’s all that she’s been thinking since she smelled the sky-grass scent of the other woman just outside her tent, still distinctive after days of hard travel and limited time for personal care.  She would know Clarke anywhere. But of all people, Clarke is the one she least expected to see tonight, no matter what she’d hoped. 

She tamps that thought down, letting her anger rise up in its stead.  Clarke is shifting on her feet, looking for all the world as if she’d like to come further into the tent, but not yet daring to do so.  Lexa’s patience wears thin as the silence stretches on, and she’s near to snapping when Clarke finally lifts her chin to speak.

“I wanted to see how you were doing.”  It’s soft, but clear, and there is little apology in Clarke’s aspect as she meets Lexa’s eyes.  

And it’s too much, just like that.  It takes her a moment to wrestle enough control not to raise her voice, aware that there could be listening ears just outside.  “And you thought now was the appropriate time to do so?” she scoffs. “Surrounded by new allies, outside of the protection of either of our peoples?  Were you followed here?”

Clarke flinches, but stands her ground.  “There are some men outside,” she accedes, to Lexa’s aggrieved huff of breath.  “But I had to see you. You almost died today, Lexa, you almost - “

The sound of her name on Clarke’s lip brings a fresh swell of anger and she can’t hold back the hiss that escapes her.  “Stop calling me that!”

She takes a step forward and Clarke, startled, takes one back.  “Calling you -” 

“My name.  You said it in the arena today, too.  Right before you stupidly risked your life and mine in some misguided bid at peace.”

Stunned, Clarke tries again.  “You were going to kill your best ally!  I had to do something to stop you, you would’ve angered the entire Iceni army and probably gotten yourself killed in the meantime.”  

“I knew the risks.  I made the decision anyway.”  Lexa is trying to calm herself now, steadying her breath and keeping her voice as level as possible in the admittedly vain hope that no one will overhear.  

But Clarke’s always had a knack for finding her tender spots, and now is no exception.

“It was the wrong decision!” She barks, and the fury brings black spots to Lexa’s vision now.

“That is not your place!” She roars, advancing on Clarke.  “I knew the risks, and I took them for myself, and for Rome.   _I_ make decisions for my people, not you!  I made the best deal I could to get you all out of there - to get Anya and Indra back to Aden so he could stand a fighting chance at surviving his first year of rule, and you and Raven back to your people in time to convince them to ally with my empire.  The blame for this whole mess would fall squarely on my shoulders, and I would be _dead_ , and a man on the throne, so perhaps the Senate would forgive this entire bloody disaster I’ve led us all into, and _you_ almost ruined it all, almost got us all killed anyway - almost got _yourself_ killed, after everything I did to protect you -” she cuts off, aware that she’s lost herself, and spins away.  The rant has done nothing but stoke her temper, and she realizes that she can’t face Clarke right now without digging further into this wound.

She can still feel the slicing fear she’d felt when she’d first heard Clarke scream her name, her _real name_ , on that killing field.  Cutting through her adrenaline and her battle haze, freezing her in place.  When she’d sensed her close, _too close_ , dangerously close to the fighting.  The terror that the battle would sweep over and harm this woman she’d come to care for stilling her hands in the middle of that mortal blow.  In one step, Clarke had revealed to everyone how much sway and favor she held with Lexa. They were lucky to have survived the day. They’d be even luckier to survive its consequences.

“Lexa-” It’s shaky, conciliatory, and Clarke’s touch is so hesitant on the back of her elbow that she almost gives in.  But she pulls her arm away instead, pulls herself under the cover of the Empress, and shakes her head.

“You should go, Clarke.”

She doesn’t let out the shaky breath she’s been holding until she hears the tent flap close behind her.  

 

\--------------------------------------------

 

Raven schemes the entire ride home.  They travel slowly, slogging through ankle-deep mud left by the season’s persistent rains, the water soaking through their cloaks and mostly subsisting on dried camp rations since dry firewood is difficult to find.  Even the small Iceni contingent they’ve brought along for the sake of credibility seems miserable, huddling together and mostly steering clear of the Romans except for mealtimes.

She hopes Indra made it out before the rains with their official story.  Nothing worse than showing up after a two-week sabbatical into the wilderness with a bank of half-drowned Celts and an Amazonian fugitive only to surprise the most likely spear-happy guards at the gate.  Raven isn’t entirely sure the story will even work - she’d caught only bits and pieces of it from the conversation the night before, but it sounded like something along the lines of “I, Alexandria au Augustus, Empress of Rome, killer of Queens and seductress of their daughters, mother to my cousin’s son and all around best warrior ever known to anyone, totally went out into the woods without telling anyone to fight the Iceni Queen on purpose so I could subject them all back to the will of Rome and single-handedly save the day.  Oh, and I brought a couple of people along to watch and help me translate and record my great deeds. And the whole thing had to be a secret for imperial security reasons, of course. And look, an extra army!”

That might be a little unfair.  But she can’t find it in herself to look kindly on the woman who ordered the attack that crippled her and killed her mentor, even if her own Queen has forgiven her enough to take her into her bed.  Although if Clarke’s sullen silence the entire ride home is any indication, things are a bit different now.

But she doesn’t have time to worry about her Queen’s love life, not now that she’s fully dedicated to helping Clarke take the Skaikru throne.  With the hope of escape significantly diminished - there’s no way the Empress is letting Clarke out of her sight after this stunt - she’s going to have to figure out a way to get Rome to help Clarke back to their people.  And to release the remaining Skaikru in the palace, as well. That means she needs to give the Romans something they want. Like victory over the Visigoths.

She thinks back over the city building plans that Anya had her studying right before they made their mid-night departure to chase down Clarke, about Anya’s focus on making the walls more defensible, more resistant to siege.  If she can get her hands on some of the Roman equipment for study…

Taking advantage of one of the few dry moments they’ve had all day, Raven slips a bit of parchment from her pack, silently thanking the stable boy she’d previously curse when she realized her packs were stuffed as much with parchment as food.  A side effect of her purported duties here, she supposes. She starts drawing.

 

\-------------------------------------------------

 

The heat is oppressive by the time they get back to the city, moisture in the air clinging to their bodies like an unwelcome suitor, drenching them all in sweat and making short tempers even shorter.  As irritated as she is by the weather and the company, Lexa included - if her cousin tells her one more time about the need for the fortification of the north wall, Anya swears - she’s even more unhappy when she sees their welcome reception.  

A group of about twenty Roman senators and their hangers-on stand just outside the gate, waiting impatiently in the humidity for their arrival.  It rankles her that they have met them here, when they are most tired and bedraggled from their journey, instead of giving them time to bathe and rest.  No mistake about it; it’s an ambush.

She scans the gathered crowd, looking for friendly faces.  There aren’t many. Indra is there, riding forward to meet Lexa, bowing her head to Lexa’s as she no doubt informs her of their story’s reception.  It’s plain from what Anya can see that it didn’t go over as well as she had hoped. 

None of the other female senators are there, that she can tell, and of the men, she sees only two or three that may be friendly to Lexa’s cause.  She spots Gaius au Serranus a bit further back, his sharp thin face pulled into a hideous rictus that Anya thinks might be his version of a smile.  He thinks there’s an advantage to be gained in this. But, at least for now, it’s Publius au Graccus she’s worried about, his portly figure at the forefront, bald pate difficult to miss as he steps forward to greet them as the Empress’s party nears.

“Ave, Alexandria au Augustus, _Imperator Caesar Augustus_ , Empress of Rome,” he gruffs with a fist to his heart.  At least he has enough sense to observe the ceremony, Anya thinks, trying to school her face into the haughty void she sees reflected on Lexa’s.  But Publius is, unfortunately, not yet finished.

“When we last saw you, the Iceni were nearly at our gates.  It is now our understanding that they have converted and are once again to fight alongside Rome, and that we have you, as our Empress, to thank for it.  Is it true?” 

Not a good start.  He’s exaggerating for effect, openly question their story and the honor of Indra au Fabia in telling it.  She can see Lexa tensing in the saddle, wonders if her nerves are as frayed from the long days of travel as Anya’s are, if she will be able to restrain herself from tearing into this puffed-up buffoon.   

But her tone is calm, if not quite civil, when she answers.  “Do you doubt the word of _Legatus Legionis au Fabia?_ ”  

It’s a simple weapon, but an effective one.  All know that Indra speaks not just with her own words, but with those of the Empress.  Her credibility is unblemished after decades of service in the legion and to the Emperors and people of Rome, and there are few other public figures in the city who would be more unwise to challenge.  And in framing his words as an attack on Indra, Lexa avoids the bolder - but still quite obvious - challenge to her own reputation for honesty.

He raises his hands and spreads them, a gesture of denial and vulnerability, but before he can speak to defend himself, Lexa breaks in, letting her volume rise.  “It is true that I left the city a fortnight past with _Legatus Legionis au Fabia_ , _Senator au Julii_ , _Legatus Skaikru_ Clarke and _clericus_ Raven to treat with Boudica, Queen of the Iceni peoples, the discord with whom I believed was a direct result of treachery and misinformation brought about by the Visigoths!  It is true that the laws of their gods demanded combat to settle the matter, and that I engaged in such combat to show the truth and honor of all Rome! And it is true that I prevailed in said combat, and that with the help of my translators and military advisors I have succeeded in bringing the Iceni back under the mantle of Rome, and, with it, security for Brittania and an important ally in the coming fight against the Visigoths!  Senators of Rome, today is a good day!”

If she’d been hoping for exultation, she was to be disappointed.  A few of the onlookers clapped or cheered, and the Senators joined along, but their faces showed no joy or relief.  Publius, for his part, bows his head to hide his face. Anya has seen the man do this before in debate, and it’s never a good sign of what is to come.  When he rises, she sees the curve of his smile slip away beneath a facade of concern.

“Empress, we all laud your efforts in bringing more soldiers to Rome,” he begins, then pauses, as if hesitant to say what comes next.  With his back to the crowd, he likely sounds nervous, but Anya knows the look of a man readying to strike. She lifts her eyes back to the crowd, scanning, and finds what she fears - Gaius, smiling ever so slightly.  He knows what’s about to come next. “But how could you spare a woman who has killed so many of our own? Good Roman soldiers, citizens, even -” he pauses, and if Anya thinks the act is overblown, it doesn’t reflect in the eyes of the crowd as he finishes - “women and children.  This barbarian queen spits in the face of Rome, and yet you show her mercy?”

Anya stiffens, steels her muscles to keep from looking back at Clarke.  There’s no way he can know that part of the story, not yet - Indra would not have shared the information, and all of Lexa’s people are absolutely loyal to her.  Well, not Raven, she supposes, but the other woman hasn’t had time to say anything, and Anya will speak to her well before she does. Any news of Clarke’s interference will have to come from the Celts, and she will have to count on their mistrust of the Romans and reluctance to admit the near-death of their Queen in fair combat by Roman hands to still their tongues a little while longer.

The crowd is larger now, having grown at the sight of the confrontation, and they press forward, gathering around and to the sides of Publius, faces pinched in disapproval and consternation.  They wait, nearly silent, staring up at their Empress as if they could read her thoughts if only they looked deep enough. This is the question they have come to ask, the answer they have come to hear.  This is the heart of it. 

Alongside Lexa, Indra is bristling, and Anya watches her cousin draw herself up to meet the challenge.  She can see weariness in every movement Lexa makes, can see how much it costs her to slip into the mantle of the Empress this time, after so much has happened and she’s travelled so far, but the glare she fixes Publius with could light any camp blaze, no matter how wet the wood.  

“I have shown _wisdom_ .” Alexandria au Augustus speaks, and the words barrel down at Publius as if they carry their own gravity, landing on his shoulders and pressing them downward.  “I have kept us from a three-sided war, launched before we can recall the legions, with the greatest threat to Rome in the last decade sitting idle in the North, watching us bloody ourselves against an enemy who should be an ally.  Queen Nia of the Visigoths presents us with false evidence of murder and scheming when in reality, it is _she_ who would destroy Rome and all who live within it for her own ambition.  The Iceni attacked Londinium believing that we were responsible for the torture of their Queen and the rape of their princesses, along with countless other atrocities exacted on their people by soldiers wearing Roman uniforms and claiming to act under my orders.  I would not jeopardize my people or the outcome of this war simply because the Iceni believed the lies of our enemies.”

It’s enough.  Thank the Gods, it’s enough.  The people relax, though Publius stands where he is, face purpled, struggling to maintain his composure under the Empress’s onslaught.  Behind him, Gaius has melted into the crowd, his part in this farce apparently over. “It is not our way!” He tries again, but it’s feeble and he knows it.  Anya scans over the crowd again, commits faces and names to memory.

Lexa opens her mouth to respond, but is saved the effort when Marcus au Quinctilius rides out from the palace gates, Aden and several _Praetors_ in tow.  She is so relieved to see her son safe and whole that she barely spares a glance for Marcus, although he does dip her a short bow he passes by.  

Aden looks better than Anya has ever seen him, his muscles filling out and his body lengthening, growing even in the short time she’s been gone.  The muscles must be due to Gustus’s training. He seems more confident than she remembers, more assured, and she wonders if this brief spate of governing hasn’t done more to season him than many years of preparation could.  He may be a budding young ruler, but she’s still his mother, and she sees the circles under his eyes, the way his left forefinger presses against his thumb and then releases, over and over, like it does when he’s worried. She needs to speak to her son.

But he’s wheeling away after only a shared look of relief and happiness, towards Marcus and Lexa, to position himself facing Publius.  He shocks them all by speaking first. “I thank you, _Senator au Graccus_ , for welcoming my mother back to Rome after her diplomatic mission.  But her journey has been long, and there are pressing matters to discuss.  I must beg you and these other fine citizens for time to speak with her and tend to the needs of Rome.”

Courteous as he is, the tone is sharp and final.  Anya can hardly believe what she’s seeing. Aden turns and leads the procession back to the palace, leaving Publius no time to respond.  As he passes her again, he pauses, giving Lexa time to catch up and take her place near the front of the line as Empress, riding behind only the hulking _Praetor_ acting as a foreguard.  

She pitches her voice low, making sure that only he can hear.  “Where did _that_ come from?” she asks, tilting her head to let him know she’s mostly joking.

His answering smile is bright and boyish, and it instantly transforms him back into the toddler who’d pulled at her tunics and stolen her heart.  “I lived with you for fourteen years, Mother,” he tells her, grin widening. “You think I wasn’t watching?”

 

\------------------------------------------------

 

The hall of the Broadleaf tribe is much larger than anything the Skaikru ever had.  They have better access to timber, being close enough to the Tiber that trade from the other clans brings them lumber and supplies outside of what they can gather from their own lands.  It’s made of huge, arching pine beams almost the length of whole trees, curled around with vines that the Broadleaf have let grow in, making it feel almost as if the occupants are still outside in the forest itself.  

The Skaikru who escaped, mostly elders and children too young to fight who were sent away before the battle, have taken refuge here since the attack on their people many months ago.  Harper sits with them, their de facto leader as the only warrior in fighting condition left among them. But of late, other tribes have been pouring in, coming to meet with the woman who has claimed the mask of High Queen, Diana of the Broadleaf tribe.  

They are all here - Floukru, Sankru, Ouskejon Kru, Delfikru, and more - all to pay homage or perhaps a challenge to their new leader.  It seems to Harper that the more the days pass, the more Skaikru is forgotten altogether. To be sure, Diana and the Broadleaf pay lip service to the fall of Skaikru and the vengeance they will take, but the tone is becoming more and more about breaking free from the relentless aggression of the Roman invaders and less about rescuing the remaining Skaikru members.  There’s even been talk of absorbing Skaikru into another tribe - presumably the Broadleaf, as that would give Diana even more of a grasp on power than she already has, since the last High Queen was of Skaikru.

They need Clarke.  As Abbinia’s chosen successor, she is the only one who can wrest claim over the Skaikru people from Diana and give them the vengeance they deserve.  Harper rises from her table again, shaking off the warning hand one of the elders places on her arm, and approaches the dais for what seems like the fiftieth time.  

Diana sits there, surrounded by the leaders of the other tribes.  As Skaikru’s representative, Harper should have had a place among them, but their new High Queen treats her and the other Skaikru as a bargaining chip only - useful, but not respected.  She must speak revenge to be seen as strong by the others, but Harper does not think that her heart has room for anything but increasing her own power.

The other tribe leaders have not had time to see this for themselves, however, and so they turn to look at Harper as she approaches, curiosity on their faces.  She drops to her knees before them, bowing her head. “High Queen,” she begins, and then, “Tribal Queens. It is my honor to address you this day.”

She waits.  The permission is slower in coming than is usual, probably because Diana is trying to figure out a way to keep Harper from asking what she’s about to.  In the end, formality wins out. “You may speak, Harper of the Skaikru tribe.”

“High Queen, we have waited while we gathered the strength of the twelve tribes to strike at the heart of the Roman invaders who killed our former High Queen and slaughtered our people.  But the twelve tribes are here, and the time is at hand! When will we avenge the death of the High Queen, and retrieve my people and my Queen from the grasp of Roman filth?”

Diana sighs, patronizing, her smile painted like those on the dolls her lover Monroe used to make for the children of the tribe.  “I know you are impatient to be avenged, Harper,” she says, her tone dripping false sympathy. “But Rome is a dangerous and formidable enemy.  We must make full preparations before we can even think of joining that battle.” She pauses. “Have you heard from your Queen?”

Harper shakes her head.  The communications had been sporadic, only reports from Maya that had trickled to a halt a few weeks ago.  She’d tried to give the other girl as much hope as she could, to convince her that Harper and the others were doing everything they could to get to her and to Clarke and save them from the clutches of Rome.  Maybe Maya had been captured. Maybe she’d just stopped believing in Harper’s false assurances. “I have heard nothing since the last time,” she’s forced to admit.

Diana nods in satisfaction.  “And as far as we know, all of the captured Skaikru are still being held in the Empress’s palace?”

Again, Harper is forced to accede.  “Yes, your majesty, as far as we know.”   

Diana looks off to the side, as if questioning someone else about this, and then nods confirmation.  Her little smile is meant to be consoling, but Harper only reads it as smug. “Then there is time yet.  I know it can be hard to wait, especially with the Skaikru Queen in enemy hands, but we must be cautious about this.  We must be sure if we are to have any hope of defeating Rome.”

The other tribal Queens nod at each other, murmuring about the wisdom of this and taking on the might of Rome, and Harper knows that she has lost again.  That she has failed her Queen yet again.

The matter settled, Diana turns towards the other Tribal Queens to resume their previous discussion.  “Now, about this matter of an alliance with the Visigoth Queen, Nia…”

Harper tunes them out.  She has to find another way.

 

\-----------------------------------------------

 

Clarke feels sick to her stomach.  She’d known when she left that it might cause problems for Lexa, but seeing it out in the open like this… the confrontation with the Senators had only gone as smoothly as it did because there was something to show for it.  Instead of dragging Clarke back by the scruff of her neck like a naughty war hound pup, she’d come back with an army of Celts to help fight the Visigoths instead. Clarke had certainly played a part in that, perhaps the biggest part - but she’d also caused the problem in the first place.

She’s still haunted by the thought that Lexa could have died for her recklessness.  By the catch in the other woman’s voice when she spoke of the potential danger to Clarke.  She’s made a mess of this.

It doesn’t help matters that when she returns to the palace, she finds that Octavia is still assigned to protect her.  Lexa’s idea of penance, no doubt, to stick her with the one person in the world who’s almost as angry with her as Lexa is.  She’s preoccupied talking to Lincoln when Clarke first walks past her quarters, still with their small travel group from before.  In that moment, Clarke is pretty sure that the only thing keeping Octavia from leaping across the room and strangling her charge to death is Lexa’s presence.  

As they walk down the hall, the party drops off one by one until they reach the guest chambers, Lexa waving Anya and Aden in.  “Please,” she tells them, fatigue softening her voice, “Take some time to rest and clean up. I will send for you both at dinner.  Aden, I would hear of your experience here while we’ve been away.”

He bows, ever polite, and leads his mother into her chambers even as the other woman glances back over her shoulder at Lexa and Clarke, now standing alone together in the hallway.  Lexa just walks off in the direction of her own chambers without another word, and Clarke is left debating whether or not she should follow. In the end, she decides to see what the other woman might have to say.

Lexa is clearly aware of her presence, glancing sideways every so often to check if she’s still with her when she thinks Clarke isn’t looking.  Still, she doesn’t say anything, not until she stops at the door of her chambers and, after a moment’s hesitation, opens it, gesturing Clarke in.  

They are both tired, dirty, worn and weathered by the trip and everything that had transpired, between them and otherwise, in the last two weeks.  Clarke looks at Lexa and is surprised to find that beyond all the guilt and the anger and everything else she might feel for her, above all she just wants to collapse into her, to sink into her arms and let the outside world fall away from them both, together.  But she cannot do that, not with the way Lexa is looking at her, so earnest and so resigned at the same time. 

When the words come, they’re so quiet that Clarke has to rock forward on her heels to hear them.  “You have your freedom, Clarke.” 

It’s the last thing she expected to hear from Lexa today.  “What?” she asks, certain that she’s misunderstood.

A corner of Lexa’s mouth quirks up, bitterness lacing the gesture.  “You have your freedom. You may leave whenever you like.” When Clarke just continues to stare at her, open-mouthed, she huffs out a breath and explains.  “I cannot continue to fight here at home and out on the battlefield, my enemies and my own people and my l-,” she corrects, “My ambassadors.” It’s a painfully understated description for what they are, and they both know it.   But Lexa recovers enough to go on. “I am stretched too thin, Clarke, and I am no longer interested in keeping you from where you need to go. Just agree to take a small guard with you to see you safely there.”

Lexa is… giving up on her?  She knows that’s not what this means, not all of it, but it’s the only thing she can think when she’s hearing this.  She shakes her head, makes herself focus. Freedom. For herself. But what about.. “My people,” she says, and belatedly remembers to make it a question, “Are they free to go too?”

Lexa screws up her face, and Clarke is not sure whether she’s about to scream or to cry.  This exhaustion has both their feelings too close to the edge. This conversation should have waited.  “I have given you what I can, Clarke,” Lexa answers, and there’s as much desperation as steel behind it.  “Take it or leave it.”

Clarke is silent for a long moment, watching as Lexa holds herself together, no doubt longing for Clarke to give her answer so that she can go to bed and be done with it.  Hope for their future all but lost to her responsibilities, again. And Clarke’s own actions, she knows.

In the end, it’s not really a decision.  Even if she could walk away from this beautiful, fragile woman across from her, she cannot leave her people.  Not to go off on a fool’s errand to find the other Amazons, not again. She has responsibilities too. And so she takes a step closer to Lexa, noting how the other woman does not retreat.  “Lexa,” she tries, and on seeing her stiffen, amends, “Alexandria. I accept your offer of freedom. But I will not leave my people alone in Rome. You still need someone to speak for the Skaikru, and like it or not, I’m still the best you have.  I’m staying.”

Lexa’s nod of acceptance is small, but Clarke thinks there’s something like relief in her eyes.  It’s enough to keep the small spark of hope inside her alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know if you want any help with the Roman stuff or any of the Latin - I'm jaimeajamais on Tumblr!


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